


Made for You

by festivalofpudding (berreh)



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: 1890s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Amnesia, Epistolary, For Science!, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-09-15 14:30:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 33,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9239087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berreh/pseuds/festivalofpudding
Summary: The Diary of Dr. Charles Neal, mad(ly in love) scientist.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> I'm writing this entirely as a gift for my BFF thegreyhenley - if other folks dig it too, that makes me a happy camper. :)

_ The Diary of Dr. Charles Neal _

 

_· Jan. 12, 1895 ·_

From today forward, this journal must be the only written record of my work. If I am successful — _when_ I am successful! — I won’t be able to tell the world what I have done, at least not right away; but I am a fastidious man, and I must keep a fastidious record, for myself if for no one else.

The harsh winter this year has proved a blessing in disguise. In these long nights I’ve had plenty of time to think, and I know the time has come. Elizabeth is still away traveling with her family, and I am here at Linkholme, buried in my studies. The mountain roads are impassable in the snow and the train from Raleigh is even slower than usual, so company is few and far between. I spend my days reading and writing, my nights sketching and dreaming. I have scrubbed my laboratory, indexed my chemicals, catalogued my references, and inventoried my equipment. As soon as Elizabeth returns, I can begin.

I wish I could convince her to live here, at least for the duration of the experiment. This house is often lonely with only Rose and John for company. But though she may be a New Woman, Elizabeth will not go that far — we may think of ourselves as brother and sister, but to the outside world she is an unmarried girl and I an established bachelor. (Of course, I could explain to them exactly why she has nothing to fear from me, but that would be even less acceptable than cohabitation.) At least the road is good between Asheville and Linkholme, and she doesn’t mind keeping late hours. She really is an excellent assistant. She would make an admirable doctor.

I haven’t yet told her my plans — she knows the nature of my theories of course, but not how I mean to test them. She will be shocked, but she is a scientist and her rational nature will prevail. This is medicine, not magic. I am no alchemist conjuring up monsters in a horror tale. What did Mary Shelley know about neurological anatomy or the transfusion of blood? Her Genevan aristocrat never read Henry Gray or William MacEwan, or Maxwell or Faraday, or for that matter Hegel or Emerson. So much is accepted now that was mystery then. For the good of science — for the good of _mankind_ — I must continue their work. I am very close now.

 

_· Jan. 16, 1895 ·_

Up all night at the drafting table, adjusting the final schematics. If I begin tomorrow, I should be able to finish the apparatus by the time Elizabeth gets back. (Memo: be sure to have enough capacitors and arc-lamps on hand for several attempts.) Once she sees my machine in action, she will be as keen as I am to begin. Then we can start collecting materials... But best not to think about that yet. I’ve just eaten breakfast and I don’t want to lose it before I nap.

_Later._ I had the most astonishing dream. I was standing at my bedroom window looking down at the snow — admiring how neat and clean it was, unmarked by foot or paw — when a lone figure emerged from the forest. He was unusually tall, remarkably so in fact, all bound up in thick trousers and tartan flannel like the lumberjacks wear, with a gold-colored beard to match. He carried a game sack over one shoulder. I watched him walk slowly across the clearing, until he stopped beneath my window and let the bag fall to the snow. But instead of hoisting it again or bending to open it, he turned and looked up at me. He had the most striking pair of eyes — not blue, not gray, not green, but somehow all of them together. Before I could react in any way, I woke up. What could it mean? I’m accustomed to encountering beautiful men in my dreams, but not quite like that. It must have something to do with my work. Perhaps the man symbolizes this winter weather, and the bag symbolizes the materials I must gather? Yes, I think I understand. But what did those eyes signify? Perhaps I should have a bath and think about them.

 

_· Jan. 18, 1895 ·_

Apparatus coming together. Supplies plentiful, equipment satisfactory. Weather is improving, so plenty of sunlight in the workshop. I spend all daylight hours at work and am often up late sketching and reviewing my research. Burned my thumb on the brazing torch again — when I grow overzealous I fear my hands move faster than my brain. The amount of coffee I’ve consumed might also be a factor. I must tell Rose to make it a little less robust. Of course, I was the one who told her to brew it so strongly to begin with…

 

_· Jan. 23, 1895 ·_

Forgot about diary this week. Will do better in future! Nothing of note to record anyway — making excellent progress, apparatus should be finished when Elizabeth arrives. Thumb is healing well. Weather has been _[remainder of page marred by spilled coffee]_

 

_· Jan. 25, 1895 ·_

Telegram from Elizabeth: yesterday’s snow blocked the line from Raleigh and her train will be late. (I remember when my father built this house: “It’s not that secluded! The train to Raleigh only takes 12 hours!” Ha!) Ah well, it will give me time to finish soldering the last few connections and clean up the workshop before she arrives. Rose refuses to come up to the fourth floor at all — she claims she’s not afraid of what goes on in these rooms, but rather that she might “knock something over and kill us all.” Her reluctance is convenient, since it means I won’t arouse her suspicions by suddenly forbidding her entrance when the time comes. Which is not to say that I don’t trust her — she’s been like a mother to me — but I fear what I plan to do in this room would be beyond even her liberality.

 

_· Jan. 26, 1895 ·_

Telegram from Elizabeth: coach arrived at Asheville. On my way to collect her.

 

_· Jan. 27, 1895 ·_

My stars, what a day. John had a time of it getting the brougham through the snow, but thankfully there wasn’t much mud. Elizabeth was tired and a little jangled from the coach ride but insisted she didn’t mind stopping off at the house before going home. (If she can stay at Linkholme for a weekend without scandal, why can’t she stay here indefinitely? If I had illicit designs on her virtue, wouldn’t a single night be enough? But I digress.) Rose had supper ready by the time we got back, so I left Elizabeth to freshen up while I made sure everything was ready in the workshop. During dinner she told me stories of traveling with her mother and spending Christmas with her nieces and nephews, and of course described the scientific exhibitions she visited. She is such an outgoing creature — I often wonder why she chooses to work with me instead of becoming a nurse or teacher or social worker. I know I’m not exactly the most stimulating of conversation partners. I do seem to amuse her, at least.

After dinner I could no longer contain my impatience and practically dragged her up to the fourth floor. She admired my housekeeping work in the library, the research all bound into neat volumes and the tidy stacks of medical journals and Electrical World magazine, but she did not quite understand my exuberance.

“This is what you couldn’t wait to show me?” she said. “Dusted shelves and polished specimen cabinets?”

“No, no,” I said, my hand upon the laboratory door latch. “ _This_ is what I couldn’t wait to show you.”

I threw the door open wide and awaited her cry of delight. Instead, she stared in silence. And then, softly:

“You built it.”

“I told you I would!” I cried. “The schematics I ordered last summer were the missing piece. Tesla’s newest motor is the key — the man is a genius with electromagnetics. It was just a matter of keeping the current at the precise level to avoid surges — you see I’ve updated the circuits to improve voltage modulation, and the new capacitors will—”

“Never mind all that,” Elizabeth said. “I never doubted you _could_ build it. I just didn’t know if you really would.”

She walked into the laboratory, scrutinizing the apparatus. I followed her, too animated to contain myself.

“What else have I been studying for the past ten years? You always knew this was my ultimate goal. I’ve been so close for so long, and now I’m finally ready to begin in earnest! Think about it, Elizabeth. When my parents died, no one had any way to save them. Medical science has known for years that the human body operates in a manner similar to electrical principles. So many have wondered whether electricity might be used for vital resuscitation. Now I’ve figured out a way to do it! If this machine works, thousands of lives will be saved. Maybe millions! Hearts could be restarted, brains revitalized, blood flow restored, sustaining life that would otherwise have been cut short. Drowning, choking, shock, heart failure, accidents…” Watching her face, I felt my voice fade as my excitement withered. “You don’t think I can do it? …Elizabeth?”

She turned then, and shook her head in awe. “I think you’ve made a miracle, Charles.”

I grasped her hands, and she went on, “But how will we test it? No hospital would let you within a mile of its doors with this contraption, let alone use it on a patient. If you could even transport it, that is.”

“I won’t be transporting it,” I told her. “We are going to test it right here. And not on a patient.”

I went to the drafting table and opened one of my sketchbooks. “Testing on a dying patient is too great a risk — if the subject revived only to expire again, or if damage were done to the body, the family would be even more grieved. It would be cruel to raise false hope.” I held out the open book and pointed to my experiment chart. “I must determine if my machine can give life to dead flesh before I use it to save a living person.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “You’re not serious.”

“I am.”

“Charles!”

“It’s the only way to prove the apparatus works! If I told the world my theory and then failed my first attempts, I would be just another crackpot charlatan, shunned from medical society. But if I perfect my resuscitation method in secret, with irrefutable proof, I can give it to the world with confidence.”

“You’re not talking about a method, Charles! You’re talking about reanimating a corpse! Desecrating graves, mutilating the dead!”

“Come now, Elizabeth, you’re a woman of science. You have no moral qualms about dissecting cadavers—” I paused to repress a shudder— “and this is no different. In fact it’s less gruesome if you ask me. And if I fail, no one need ever know. No harm will be done.”

“And if you succeed? If your cadaver gets up and starts walking about? What then? What will it be?”

“A human being! In need of some retraining, possibly, but otherwise a normal, living man.”

“Or a mindless monster.”

“Oh, for— I wish you had never read that wretched book! That novel was written by a teenage girl for a group of poets. It’s a horror tale, not a scientific treatise. You’re far too rational to be put off by such ghoulish nonsense.”

“All I know is, things didn’t work out very well for the Elizabeth in that story.”

I pushed up my spectacles, exasperated. “Victor Frankenstein was a deranged megalomaniac with delusions of grandeur. I have no desire to play God. I don’t want to stitch together body parts and create some sort of superman to do my bidding. I only want to save lives. What if a machine like this had existed when my parents drowned? They would still be here today. That's all I want. I want people who should be alive to be given that chance. I am going to make this machine work, Elizabeth. I will do it with you or without you, but I will do it. You will help me make my miracle, won’t you? Say you’ll help me.”

Elizabeth took the sketchbook gently from my hands and placed it on the drafting table. “Of course I will help you. I was taken by surprise, that’s all. You must admit it’s a rather startling idea, even for you. But what we both need right now is a good night’s sleep. You know how overwrought you get when you’re tired. Go to bed, Charles. We can discuss the... specifics... tomorrow.”

Grudgingly, I agreed. She had just returned from a long journey, after all, and I couldn’t expect her to share my depth of feeling any more than I could expect her to understand the reasons for it. I could see that she understood _me_ , and that was all I needed. And so we parted, each to our own rooms, and I sat down to record the day in this journal before undressing. Now it’s long past midnight and I am truly tired. I had better get some sleep so I can begin tomorrow with a clear head. We have a lot of work ahead of us.


	2. Chapter 2

_· Jan. 29, 1895 ·_

I greeted Elizabeth somewhat sheepishly at breakfast, but after a night’s rest she was ready to forgive my emotional outburst and learn more about my plans. Her concern is not with the morality of resuscitating a deceased person, but rather the morality of procuring said deceased person – every medical student knows about the distasteful practice of grave-robbing. I assured no graves would be disturbed. My reasoning is thus:

  1. In winter the frozen ground is too hard for digging, so the recently departed must be laid away until spring. In remote areas, church cellars often serve this purpose.
  2. I will search rural churches nearby and choose a suitable subject, preferably one without family.
  3. If the test fails, I will return the body before spring to be given a proper Christian burial.
  4. If the test succeeds, I will observe the subject until spring and then reintroduce him to society.



The nutrient solution I developed last year will protect the body while we calibrate the machine. (memo: component list in chemical cabinet.) Today’s task is to prepare the solution and fill the bath I installed in the laboratory. (I use the word “bath” as if it were hotel tub, but it’s actually a copper watering trough.) Rose and John leave first thing tomorrow to attend their niece’s wedding in Hendersonville, and they won’t be back for at least two days – that should be plenty of time to find a subject and bring it to the laboratory without being seen. As soon as they leave in the morning, I will begin my search.

 

 _· Jan. 30, 1895_ ·

My stars, what an assistant I have in Elizabeth. After finishing the bath yesterday I told her she should go home and get some rest, since I won’t need her again until I’m ready to begin the test. Immediately she protested: “Home? Why would I go home?”

“Well... Rose and John have left. You’ve always said it’s improper to be here alone with me. What would the town think?”

“Does the town know Rose and John are gone? Did they announce their trip in the newspaper?” 

“But your family―”

“―Knows there’s no danger in your company.” Seeing my face, she added, “What I mean is, they know you’re a gentleman, and that our relationship is strictly professional. Besides, I’m not a schoolgirl anymore, Charles. I’m nearly thirty. People don’t gossip nearly as much about the virtue of old maids. At this point I think they would be relieved if I were your mistress.”

I cleared my throat and pushed up my spectacles. “Well. Anyway, I, uh, I haven’t found the subject yet. We can’t begin until I do.”

“And just how do you propose to get him here?”

“With the winter sled. I do know how to harness a horse, you know.”

“You haven’t been to the stable since your father stopped forcing your lessons. If you try to harness a horse by yourself, I’ll be testing that machine on you.”

“And I suppose you’re an expert?”

“How do you think I come and go from this castle of yours? Magic carpet?” She shook her head. “I’ll drive. You’ll need an accomplice anyway in case someone notices you plundering church cellars on a Wednesday morning. If anyone comes across us, we’re just a rustic couple out collecting firewood.”

I had to laugh at the idea of Elizabeth and I being a rustic anything. She laughed too, and the matter was settled.

We set out early this morning, myself in outdoor gear borrowed from John, Elizabeth in similar garb borrowed from her brother. The day was foggy and overcast, perfect for our needs. We headed west into the hills along the logging trail for nearly an hour without encountering another soul, following a map from my father’s library, until at last our search was fruitful: we came upon a small wooden church alone in the pines. The shoveled front steps told us the church was in use, while the lack of chimney smoke told us it was not in use today. We parked the sled behind some trees and crept around to the cellar door – finding it unlocked, we descended into the darkness.

It was absolutely frigid in the cellar – every surface etched with frost, the tiny windows clouded with ice. My teeth chattered as I held up my lamp, throwing weird shadows into the gloom. I kept hold of Elizabeth’s coat so as not to lose her. In a side room we found what we sought: about a dozen plain pine coffins, arranged with solemn care along the outer walls. Each bore a white label marked with the occupant’s name, dates of birth and death, scheduled burial, and next of kin. As expected most were the elderly or children, but there were a few adult males. I was peering at the birthdate of one possibility when Elizabeth tugged at my sleeve and whispered.

“Charles, look.”

Set against the back wall was an unmarked box slightly larger than the others. We looked but found no label of any kind, only a date written in pencil on the lid: _12/29/94_. Exchanging a look, Elizabeth and I nodded and stopped to pry open the lid. I raised my lamp and looked within, and my breath escaped me in a puff of white vapor.

“It’s him.”

“Who? You know him?” When I didn’t reply, Elizabeth touched my shoulder. “Charles?”

“What? No— no, I don’t know him. He’s the right age, is what I meant.”

Elizabeth bent over the coffin for a closer look. “I see no obvious cause of death. The body is in excellent condition. I’ll check the eyes – they’re always first to go. Oh, they’re perfect! Hardly any clouding of the corneas. Charles, look.”

“That’s alright,” I said. “I trust your judgment.”

She would have laughed if not for the solemn stillness of the place. “How on earth did you survive anatomy class?”

“Frequent absence,” I said. “And smelling salts.”

She continued her examination while I tried to hold the lamp steady. “He must have been a logger – he’s dressed like one, at any rate. So many boys come out here alone. It seems whoever found him didn’t even know his name. I wonder how—oh.”

“What?”

I leaned forward, squinting. Gingerly Elizabeth lifted one frozen arm just enough for the lamp light to fall upon the hand. I gasped and jerked backward.

“Water damage,” she said. “He must have drowned, poor thing. I’ll bet his feet are just as bad.”

“We can’t repair that,” I said. “It’s impossible to reverse necrosis.” I felt despair welling up in me. To find such a perfect subject on the very first try, only to be thwarted like this!

Peering at the ruined fingers, Elizabeth said, “We don’t have to. We’ll replace them.”

“Replace the hands and feet?” I managed to keep my voice to a whisper, but just barely. “With what, pirate hooks?”

She eyed me. “With different hands and feet.”

“Last night you were ready to burn me at the stake for even contemplating resuscitating a dead body, and now you want to sew one together like a quilt? What about blasphemy and desecration? What about Victor Frankenstein?”

Carefully she placed the hand back on the chest, then turned to face me. “I didn’t know why I agreed to help you with this, but now I do. My father lost his leg in the war. My uncle lost a foot and three fingers to frostbite. Imagine if science could have saved them! If we can transfer blood from one person to another, why not fingers? Your nutrient bath is meant to restore vitality to flesh, isn’t it? It could help bones set, tissues knit… We can do this, Charles. I know we can. I will perform the surgery myself, if you trust me to.”

Did I trust her? I felt ready to burst into song right there in that frigid makeshift crypt. Unable to reply, I smiled at her instead, and she smiled back.

“Right. I suppose we can just take him coffin and all, if the poor fellow has no one to miss him. I’ll get the foot end if you get the head.” She replaced the lid and put her leather gloves back on, then stooped to grip the pine box. “Charles?”

“Can you— I mean, don’t you think I should—”

“If you’re about to warn me not to lift heavy objects lest I damage my delicate feminine organs, I will leave this cellar right now and take the sled with me.”

“I’ll get the head.”

I set down my lamp, and together we hoisted the coffin between us. After much huffing, puffing, groaning, and swearing, we got the box up the steps and onto the snow outside. Elizabeth went to fetch the sled while I returned to the cellar and rearranged the remaining coffins to fill in the gap, ensuring the room appeared undisturbed. I joined Elizabeth outside and we lifted the box into the sled, covering it with horse blankets and a few stray branches. I closed the cellar doors leaped up onto the box seat beside Elizabeth, elated by our success.

“What about our tracks?” she said.

“We’ll have to pray it snows again before the parson returns.”

From the look of the sky, that prayer would soon be answered. Sure enough, by the time we got halfway down the hill, fat white snowflakes had begun to fall, obscuring all signs of our expedition.

Now I am sitting beside the fire in the downstairs library. No sooner did we return to Linkholme than Elizabeth left again straightaway, saying only that she “knew what to do” and would be back by sundown. I changed clothes and had a brandy to calm my nerves, then sat down to record the morning’s events. Our charge waits for us patiently in the cold-pantry. I can’t believe we found him on the very first attempt. And that face… No, I can’t think about it right now. There is too much to do. My mind is in a whirl – my hands are trembling as I hold my pen. I can barely contain myself until Elizabeth returns. I think I’ll go upstairs and starting warming the bath.

 

 _Later – night? morning?_ – I have no idea what time it is. I would have fallen into bed without writing, but the exceedingly large brandy Elizabeth made me drink has fortified me enough to make a decent record of the night. I know in the future I’ll be glad I put down every detail, even if right now I would rather forget some of them.

Elizabeth returned just before sundown, bearing a large train case. As I opened the door she greeted me with: “I need snow. Do you have iodine?” and I knew then what the case contained. We filled two pails with fresh-fallen snow and took them to the service wing, where we used the elevator to haul everything upstairs. In the laboratory she set her case on the table and opened it to reveal just what I suspected: two male hands severed at the wrists and two male feet amputated at mid-shin.

“Where did you get these?” I said.

“I murdered a stable hand,” Elizabeth replied. She looked at my expression and laughed. “From the mortuary, of course! I told the attendant I’d been sent to count cadavers set aside for anatomy class. The men I took these from were bound for dissection anyway – I merely started the process a little early.”

I watched her casually pack the severed extremities in snow as if she were doing up a Christmas parcel. Pulling my handkerchief from my waistcoat pocket, I held it to my nose I said, “Are you sure you can attach them? An operation like that has never been done successfully before.”

“That’s because I’ve never done it,” Elizabeth said. “Are you sure you can bring a dead man back to life?”

She looked at me, and we both nodded.

How can I describe the hours that followed? It was the most amazing, exhausting, revolting, exhilarating thing I have ever done. The first task was to get the subject upon the table and remove his clothing, replaced by a towel for modesty. I then gathered my anatomical texts while Elizabeth sterilized her surgical tools, and the operation began. With my knowledge of human engineering and Elizabeth’s skilled, steady hands, we made the perfect team. I did not resent the reversal of roles, as it meant I could keep my eyes fixed on medical books while trying not to hear the various snaps, spurts, and squelches. (Did you know a bone saw slicing through a leg sounds exactly like a cleaver cutting a cabbage in half? But I digress.) Her final step was securing the outer stitches in the wrists, which required my help. I held the cold hands steady for her, each in turn, wondering if I would ever feel warm life flowing through them. At last the operation was complete. Then came the most difficult task of all: moving the subject from the operating table into the nutrient bath without undoing all Elizabeth’s hard work. I got my hands under the arms as she did the same beneath the knees, and as the towel slipped free and fell to the floor she raised an eyebrow and said, “My goodness, you did find a healthy specimen.” I managed not to lose my grip, though my enflamed face made it difficult to keep my gaze fixed upon the ceiling.

Carefully we laid our charge in the bath, safely submerged in the nutrient solution. It wasn’t until we stepped back to survey our work that I noticed a critical error.

“His legs!” I cried.

“What about them?”

“They’re too long! Look! Couldn’t you have found a better match?”

“I didn’t exactly have a catalogue to order from! I did the best I could! It’s a human body, not a jigsaw puzzle! The legs are a bit long, I admit—”

“A bit? Look at those shins! He’s going to be seven feet tall!”

“Don’t exaggerate. It’s barely noticeable. He fits in the tub, doesn’t he?” Elizabeth peered through the translucent liquid to examine her handiwork. “Not a stitch out of place. A day or two in here and the bones will be almost set. He’ll have no trouble walking when the time comes.”

As I stood there watching her, the reality of what we had just accomplished finally sank in. In wonder I said, “You did it, Elizabeth.”

 _“We_ did it,” she corrected me. “You make an excellent assistant, Nurse Neal.” She grinned, but then her smile faded and she said, “Charles, are you alright? You’re white as a sheet.”

“I haven’t eaten today,” I said. “I didn’t want any additional risks.”

“Come on, let’s get some bread and brandy into you. We can toast ourselves to a job well done.”

And so the tainted limbs went into the fire, table and tools were cleaned, I set the thermostat on the nutrient bath, and our work for the night was done. We left our charge to his rest and went down to the kitchen, where Rose had left ample provisions for me during her absence. Elizabeth ate with gusto, but my stomach was in no condition for anything but a little bread and cheese. I gratefully downed the brandy Elizabeth poured for me, however, and raised my empty glass to congratulate her once more.

It must be nearly daybreak by now – I’m so tired, I doubt I will even undress before collapsing into bed. Elizabeth and I both agreed to rest tomorrow and recover from our labors. She will visit her parents, and I will sleep and sketch. The most daunting task of all still awaits us. I am overwhelmed by equal parts joy and fear. Is this actually happening? I feel as if I’m standing on a brink, feeling gravity tug at my chest. What will happen when I let myself fall forward? 


	3. Chapter 3

 

_· Jan. 31, 1895 ·_

I wasn’t sure if my nerves would allow me to get any rest last night, but sure enough I was asleep the moment my head touched the pillow. I slept until midday, by which time Elizabeth had already gone. She left a note atop this journal, tucked beneath my pen case:

 _C-_  
_I have looked in on our guest. If he had any complaints, he did not report them to me. I will be back tomorrow around midday. Do try to rest, and don’t forget to eat. I will bring you some of Mother’s seed cake._  
_Your accomplice,_  
_-E_

I went up to the laboratory straightaway, finding everything in good order. From what I could see the tissues appear to be healing well, although the solution’s opacity makes a close examination difficult. (I’m rather relieved by that fact, to be honest.) Now I’m having a late luncheon while writing in this journal. I will take Elizabeth’s advice and spend the rest of today resting and reviewing my notes, preparing myself for the test ahead. It is a difficult task when one’s nature is as excitable as mine. My chest feels like a violin being fitted with new strings: lungs stretched too tight, fingers plucking at my heart, notes not yet in tune. My entire life has led me to this point. Sometimes I’m not sure which is more frightening – failing, or succeeding.

 _4pm_ – Checked thermostat. Temp good, solution stable. Laboratory in good order. Equipment clean and ready. Recounted capacitors and arc-lamps, checked gauze supply for electrode swabs.

 _6pm_ – Checked thermostat. Temp unchanged.

 _7pm_ – Checked thermostat. Temp unchanged.

 _8pm_ – Checked thermostat. Temp unchanged.

 ~~9pm~~ ~~– Checked th~~  Have retired to my rooms for the night.

With everyone gone the house seems even larger than usual – dark, cold, and empty. Knowing that I am the only living soul for miles in all directions doesn’t help. The wind beats about the windows, whistling through the eaves. If I were a superstitious person, I would say it sounded like the moaning of ghosts. I think I will stoke up the fire, have a glass of brandy, and try to get some sleep.

 

 _Night._ I don’t know why I am writing this down, especially here, but I cannot sleep again until I do. If these lines are hard to read, it’s because my hand is trembling as I write. I was awakened by a most upsetting dream. In my dream I got out of bed and crept up to the laboratory once more, but upon looking into the bath I found it empty. Before I could react I was violently seized from behind – as I was overwhelmed by the smell of chemicals and death, a bearded mouth rasped a single word against my ear, more like the growl of a beast than a human voice: “Why?” I kicked and thrashed, struggling to free myself, but I could not break the grasp of those cold, wet arms. Again came the demand, harsh against my ear: “Why?” I tried to answer but my voice failed, both from fright and from the crushing grip about my bare chest. I looked down at the arms around me – stitches breaking, fingers dripping, smearing bright blood across my skin. In terror I cried out and started awake.

What could it mean?? Could some part of my unconscious fear that my subject will curse me for plunging him back into mortality? I must remember this will be a human being, not a laboratory animal or horror novel creature. Perhaps it was not my subject but my conscience asking the question. Why? Why him? Why now? There must be a greater meaning, more than I yet know. Right now all I know is my own unease. I can still feel that desperate grip, flesh against flesh, breath rasping in my ear. … I must put such things from my mind and try to sleep again before morning. The fire has burned down to coals, but as I left my watch downstairs I have no idea what time it is. I will add a fresh log and go to bed. I have let this dark and lonely night affect me too much. Blast that Mary Shelley!

 

_· Feb. 1, 1895 ·_

_Morning._ Feeling much more myself in the light of day, after sleep and a good breakfast. I was tempted to tear the preceding page from this journal and burn it out of embarrassment, but that would not be good science – a researcher must record every detail, even those he would rather omit. One never knows what may prove helpful later on. It is mid-morning now, and I am awaiting Elizabeth’s arrival. Last night’s wind did not bring much new snow, so she should have no trouble. Unless she is too fatigued, the experiment will proceed tonight.

 _3:15pm_ – Elizabeth is here, warming up with tea by the fire. She brought her “work clothes” (trousers and a laboratory coat), extra gauze (always useful), and a seed cake (bless you Mrs. Bassett). We will combine tea and supper for an early meal, and then we shall begin. At long last, the time has come.

 

 _Midnight._ I must try to put everything down as it happened. I don’t want to leave out anything or forget the smallest detail. But how could I possibly forget these past few hours? How could anyone forget witnessing such a thing, let alone bringing it to pass with his own hands? I will remember the events of this night until the day I die.

But let me begin with facts. By 6pm we were ready to begin. The first task was to position the operating table such that we could connect the apparatus, then to assemble our supplies (gauze, saline, paraffin, towels, blankets, spare arc-lamps, etc.) with reach. When everything was in order, I threw the circuit breaker and my machine whirred into life, sparking once or twice before settling into initialization mode. While it collected its power, Elizabeth and I collected our subject. Together we lifted the body from the nutrient bath and laid it out supine upon the table, where we toweled off the slippery solution as best we could. I then covered it with a blanket from the hips down, both for modesty and to keep the tissues warm.

“Charles, look,” Elizabeth said, examining the stitches about one wrist. “The inner tissues are nearly fused, even without blood flow. These wounds will heal in days, not weeks. Your nutrient bath is a miracle.”

“Your surgery is the miracle,” I told her. “They’ll put your name in medical textbooks.”

“They’ll put _your_ name in medical textbooks,” she replied dryly. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Attaching a hand is one thing – using it is another. Dead men don’t write letters.”

“This one will,” I said. “I promise you that.”

After the skin was clean and dry, I carefully applied electrode contacts about the head and torso in accordance with the procedure I devised: swab with saline, place contact, cover with gauze, seal with paraffin. (Memo: see illustrations on chart 4.) When all was ready, Elizabeth cleared away the supplies while I checked the machine, which was by now emitting a low hum from the energy it held in check. She watched as I darted from station to station, peering at gauges and scales, adjusting knobs and dials, until at last I turned to her and said as confidently as I could: “Apparatus ready.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Subject ready.”

“Stand clear,” I called. She moved a safe distance away, and I threw the first switch.

The arc-lamps flashed with a tremendous flare, blinding us with a burst of white light as their elements burned out in a cascade of hot pops and whistles. Capacitors whirred and droned to contain the surge of power, then faded back to a background hum. When my eyes recovered I looked at the table. Nothing.

“Lamps!” I cried.

Together we rushed to replace the spent arc-lamps. This took perhaps 60 seconds. Their elements had burned out but the circuits held – power remained at full. At the first possible instant I pushed Elizabeth away and called, “Stand clear!” before throwing the switch again.

Another burst of noise, another blinding flash – one lamp burned out, but the other held. After a few moments the second stage initiated with a tremendous racket – the second arc-lamp gave out just as the Tesla coil began to glow, dull at first, then crackling with ominous purple streaks. Frantically I worked to operate everything at once, keeping the precious power flow steady. Beneath the growing din I heard Elizabeth call my name in warning.

“Not yet!” I shouted. “Not yet!” I was on the cusp – I could feel it. Energy hummed all around me. I was as much a part of the machine as the rotors and wires. I could not stop now. I would bring life to the body on that table or join it in death. 

The noise grew deafening, and the apparatus began to shake and spit white sparks at an increasing rate. I stood my ground until the last possible second, and then I heard the metallic whine and dove aside an instant before the Tesla coil erupted in a fountain of brilliant purple tendrils. The force threw me to the floor, where I lay helpless as the sparks poured forth all around me. I watched them twine about the body, branching across the room, discharging into the floor, the walls, the ceiling. The laboratory filled with their weird and brilliant glow, reflecting off metal and glass. I could scarcely believe my eyes. It was the most beautiful sight I have ever beheld.

And then all at once, they disappeared. The light went out and the room was plunged into darkness but for the fire burning in the hearth. Elizabeth was at my side in a moment, but in my haste I pushed past her and ran to the table. The machine was still discharging, winding down in a sequence of slowing whirs and clicks. The air reeked of ozone and burned elements, and white smoke curled up from blown circuits and spent capacitors. I waved the smoke away and leaned over the table. The form upon it lay motionless – no spasms, no tremors, no motion of any kind. I put my ear to the breast. I heard nothing. I felt no rise and fall in the chest. My throat began to ache. Tears prickled at the corners of my eyes.

An instant later my own breath was knocked from me as I was flung backwards to the floor. I scrambled to my feet and stared in astonishment at the silhouette upon the table – struggling to push itself up, propped on buckling elbows. In the dim glow from the fire I saw a pair of eyes open: large, round, bulging in terror.

“It’s alright,” I said. “You’re safe. We’re not going to hurt you.”

Those eyes showed no sign of comprehension, only blank panic. Their owner opened his mouth, struggling in vain to draw breath.

“That’s right,” I said. “Take a breath. Just breathe. Breathe—”

He gave a choked noise, then another, then retched and coughed up a mouthful of noxious water from his lungs. It was replaced by a protracted gasp, the first breath of life in more than a month. He stared at me in wild terror, and then his eyes rolled back and he collapsed in a heap on the table.

We ran to him and I felt for a pulse – elevated and slightly arrhythmic, but strong. Slow, warm breath passed between the parted lips. Looking at Elizabeth, I said in wonder: “He’s alive.”

“He won’t be for long if we don’t see to him,” she said. “I’ll clean him up, you fix the bed.”

She tended to the subject (no, not the subject – the _patient_ ), removing the electrodes and inspecting his stitches, while I threw a blanket over the cot we had set up near the fire. Carefully we rolled him into our arms and laid him out upon the makeshift bed. His feet hung over the end and I glared at Elizabeth, who shrugged and fetched another blanket. We got him tucked in securely, warm and dry, and checked his vital signs again. Respiration and heartbeat were strong and steady. Deathly pallor and cold stillness had gone, replaced by the warm pink glow of life.

Elizabeth ran a hand through his hair to smooth it down. When it sprang right back up again, she tilted her head.

“Was it always like that?”

“Like what?” 

“Like… that. Did his hair always do that?”

 I shrugged. “Must have been the electricity.”

 After that we watched him for a minute or so in silence, still trying to comprehend what we had just done. And then Elizabeth asked, “When will he regain consciousness?”

 “I don’t know,” I said. “He may never. We have revived a body, but there’s no way of knowing yet how much of its mind remains. All we can do is wait.”

We agreed our patient should not be left alone for a moment for at least the next 24 hours, and I volunteered to take the first watch. We spent the next hour or two sweeping up broken glass and airing out the laboratory, and then Elizabeth retired to rest on the sofa in the next room. I said I would wake her at 3am to take the next shift, but I don’t know if I will. Why not let her sleep? There is no way I could, not now. Not tonight.

I am sitting in a chair beside the cot, having written all this down by the light of the fire. I’m sure I have forgotten some small detail, but the technical notes are in my anatomical charts, and my brain is in too much of a whirl to put everything into words. What I want to record here is the meaning of what I have done. A man lies sleeping nearby who a day ago was a frozen corpse. Have I merely given animation to flesh, or is he truly alive? Will he recall his former life, or will he be a different person entirely, or will his mind be a blank slate? There is no way to know unless – _until_ – he awakens.

(There is one thing I do know. If my device is ever to be used in hospitals, I must find a way to make it less… dramatic. No one would allow exploding arc-lamps and spewing Tesla coils into a casualty ward. But one step at a time.)

My patient’s face is turned slightly toward the fire. From here I can see the pulse moving swiftly in his neck. I am so glad I refused to examine him in his coffin in that icy cellar – I don’t want to remember him like that. He looks so healthy and vital. I don’t want to think about what he was. I want only to learn what he is now.


	4. Chapter 4

_Observational Data Collected by E. Bassett_

Today is Saturday the 2nd of February 1895. I write this on a sheet of stationery taken from Dr. Neal’s desk for the purpose of inclusion in his official records. The following are my observations during my first shift.

Shortly after 8am I awoke to find Dr. N had not summoned me during the night. In the laboratory I discovered him asleep in his chair. The fire had nearly burned out and the room was markedly cold. The sound of my adding more logs to the coals roused Dr. N from sleep. I encouraged him to take my place on the library sofa and assured him I would inform him of the slightest occurrence. I will now record observations on the hour until/unless condition changes or Dr. N relieves me.

9:00am  
Subject remains supine and unconscious. No movement or vocalization. Coloring and general constitution are good. Respiration is smooth and steady. Auscultation with stethoscope reveals strong heart rate without arrhythmia and a slight rattle in the lungs, the latter undoubtedly caused by remnants of water, as it is too soon for any infection. Examination of sutures shows that inner tissues have almost entirely healed. Estimate outer tissues and skin will heal within a week. Will remove sutures with Dr. N’s approval.

10:00am  
Vital signs normal, condition unchanged.

11:00am  
Vital signs normal, condition unchanged.

midday  
At approximately half past 11 the patient exhibited his first signs of movement: first a vague stirring, then an abrupt and convulsive coughing fit. I immediately called for Dr. N, who rushed in at once. The patient rolled to his side and expectorated water from his lungs, aided by swift blows to the back from Dr. N. When the fit had passed, the patient became aware of us and reacted with great alarm. Though he did not speak, he appeared to understand our words, and his agitation eased. It appears language comprehension in the brain was either undamaged or is rapidly returning, though the patient appears incapable of speech. I postulate verbal communication will also return.

As Dr. N is now attending, I will end these observations and submit this sheet for his records.

 

_Personal Memorandum of Elizabeth Bassett_

I wasn’t sure how elaborate I should be in the notes I took for Charles, so I am writing this down in case he should want a more descriptive record of the day to add to his own memoirs. (I have not read his journal, but I highly doubt all that scribbling I’ve witnessed is comprised solely of dry statistics.) Fortunately I have a talent for recalling conversational detail. Whether or not Charles will be pleased by this particular skill remains to be seen.

When I entered the laboratory this morning I found Charles sitting beside the hearth, journal on his lap, somehow fast asleep despite being slouched rather precariously in an uncomfortable metal chair. The poor thing nearly sprang from his skin when I threw a log on the coals, then berated himself for dozing off. I told him not to be silly: he was exhausted from leaping about the place last night, and from the looks of it our patient had not budged. I insisted he take my place on the sofa and get some rest, and in gratitude he offered to go downstairs first and make me some tea, even bringing up a little breakfast tray of leftover seed cake. (Bless him, you could rust nails in the tea he brews, but I did appreciate the effort.) He then capsized onto the sofa and within seconds was oblivious to the world. I closed the door and settled in beside the freshly-rebuilt fire with tea, cake, note paper, and a rather mediocre novel to pass the time.

As I recorded in my notes, the patient looked perfectly sound and well, but had not yet shown any sign of consciousness. The longer I sat with him, the more unease and doubt began to pluck at me. Perhaps Charles’ machine could resuscitate flesh, but could not revive the vital spark of humanity. Perhaps this body would merely lie here breathing until it starved to death. My concern was more for Charles, to be quite honest: for such a bitter blow to befall him now would break his heart, and hence my own. But then I had a vivid recollection of those eyes, seen in that brief moment between revival and collapse: wild and terrified, but conscious, sentient. I knew then that this was no longer a remodeled cadaver but a living person, a true patient in need of care. (In fact, I decided to temporarily christen him “P” for “Patient”, since we did not as yet know his Christian name.) I began formulating ways of getting food into an unconscious man — perhaps the intravenous technique used to treat cholera could be modified to include nutrients? — but fortunately for everyone the point soon became moot.

At about half past eleven the sound of a sharp breath drew my attention from my novel. P made a weak coughing noise, then suddenly erupted into a violent coughing fit which wracked his entire frame. I went to him at once, and shouted for Charles. Before I could shout again Charles burst through the door, hair mussed and waistcoat askew, donning his spectacles with trembling hands. Swiftly he knelt by my side.

“Let me,” he said. “No, let me do it.”

I fetched smelling salts, brandy, and towels while Charles tended to the patient, holding him steady as he cleared his lungs of the last residue of tainted water. This rather astonished me, as the sight of bodily fluids usually overwhelms Charles, but in his focus he seemed almost not to notice. When the coughing fit finally ended P eased back, but only for a moment, for when he became aware of us he winced and recoiled in alarm.

“It’s alright,” Charles said. “It’s alright. Don’t be afraid.”

He moved closer but P withdrew, scooting back on the cot until he had kicked free of his blankets. Moving his legs thus made him gasp in pain, and he stared down wide-eyed at the black sutures encircling his shins.

“Keep talking to him,” I urged.

“Your legs are hurt,” Charles said. “You were hurt, but you’re getting better now. I’m a doctor. I helped you. Do you understand what I am saying?”

P said nothing, merely blinked at him with those remarkable eyes.

Carefully Charles sat down in the chair opposite the cot, his every move warily watched. He put a hand on his chest and said, “My name is Charles. Charles. Can you tell me your name?”

Beneath the unkempt beard P began chewing his lower lip. His thick brows knit first in confusion, then frustration.

“That’s alright,” Charles said. “It will come. Do you know what happened to you? Do you remember?”

I could ‘see the wheels turning’, as the expression goes, as P wracked his poor struggling brain for some coherent recollection. From the vexed look on his face, not much presented itself. He grew agitated, and violently thrust a hand into his hair as if he would beat the knowledge back into his skull. Charles reached out to grasp the hand and gently drew it away.

“Don’t upset yourself,” he said. “You must give it time. Just rest now. We will take care of you.”

P looked down at their intertwined fingers.

Releasing his hand, Charles stood abruptly and said, “But you must be cold. I’ll fetch your blankets.”

But he did not seem particularly cold, despite his lack of dress. When Charles let go of his hand he began examining the stitches on his wrist, which soon reminded him again of his legs. In curiosity he drew his knees up to his chest and scrutinized the dark crosshatch around each shin, just below the calf-muscle. Gingerly he reached down to touch one black suture.

“Don’t do that!” Charles cried. P flinched, and he added less harshly, “You’ll be able to walk in a few days. You mustn’t touch the stitches. Here’s your blanket so you can— no, I said _don’t_ touch them. You might...”

His voice trailed off as one finger poked into a loose stitch, producing a soft squelching noise. The color drained from Charles’ face.

“You really… shouldn’t…”

The finger probed a bit harder, and P gasped and clutched his shin with both hands. Fresh blood oozed from between his fingers in a single bright red rivulet. I heard a thump and looked over to see Charles sprawled upon the floor in a dead faint.

With a sigh I plucked the smelling salts from the tray and put them to use. When Charles spluttered and sat up, I shoved the brandy flask into his hand and said, “Physician, heal thyself” before turning my attention to the actual patient.

His apprehension returned as I approached, but when I held up the towel in my hand and pointed to his leg he appeared to understand my intentions. He sat back and allowed me to tend the wound, even spreading his knees to grant me better access.

Behind me I heard Charles snap, “For heaven’s sake, Elizabeth, fetch his blanket.”

“He’s alright,” I said. “We’re right next to the fire, he’s quite warm.”

Charles did not reply. Only when I looked over and saw his flushed face and averted eyes did I comprehend his meaning.

“For heaven’s sake!” I exclaimed. “You’re a doctor! We see unclothed bodies every day!”

“That’s different.”

“I don’t see how. You didn’t mind when he was a corpse on a slab. Why should it—”

I felt movement and turned to see P reaching for the discarded blanket. He stretched out both legs, drew the tartan wool across his hips, then looked down at his exposed feet and wiggled his toes.

“Well at least someone has some modesty,” Charles muttered.

Looking at those bare feet, I said, “This does bring up a relevant point. He’s not going to fit into anything of yours or John’s. I brought some things back with me, but we will have to come up with something more substantial before he goes out in public.”

“Basic decency will suffice for today,” said Charles. “What did you bring?”

I directed him to the sack I’d smuggled from home, containing a few items pilfered from my brother, just some old bits which were unlikely to be missed. Inside were two pairs of woolen socks (darned several times over), two rather faded union suits (one red, one grey), and an ancient battered greatcoat lined with brown fur.

“I thought if we cut the suits about the waist, he could wear the top half as a shirt and the bottom half as drawers,” I said.

“More like knickerbockers,” said Charles, holding up one garment. “But it’s better than nothing. Bless you for this, Elizabeth. It had entirely escaped my mind.”

“What are assistants for? You had more important things to think about.”

He smiled at me, the smile I’ve loved so well since we were children, and one which I happily returned. It really is a shame he has never been the marrying type, for he has a smile that would set any girl’s heart fluttering with romance. I’ve often wondered why mine has proven immune, but the truth is I’m simply not interested in such things. I think that may be one reason Charles and I get on so well: each in our own way, our inclinations do not fit the world’s expectations.

I volunteered to tailor our patient’s new wardrobe if Charles would go downstairs and search the pantry for something suitable for a first meal. P watched in curious silence as I cut the grey suit just above the access buttons, producing a long shirt, and the red suit across the midriff, creating a makeshift pair of drawers. I brought over the latter with a pair of socks, and with P’s cooperation we managed to get him decently clad (from the waist down at least). By the time Charles returned he was sitting up in bed, red drawers tied around his waist with string, ending at mid-calf over tattered socks. He looked like a giant ragamuffin from a Dickens novel. He smiled at Charles and wiggled his toes, already threatening to burst from the thrice-darned seams.

After a moment Charles said, “I found a jar of broth. And I made tea.”

“Oh, lovely,” I said, as cheerfully as I could. I shook out the grey shirt and laid it across the chair. “That should serve for now. We’ve got the coat if he needs it, and this side of the room is warm if he stays by the fire.”

“We’re moving him to the library,” Charles said.

“Why?”

“We can carry the cot between us, it’s just next door.”

“But why? He doesn’t—”

“We’re moving him, Elizabeth. I don’t want him in here.”

Unwilling to argue, I accepted his decision as an executive order. We left the broth to warm over the fire and, after reassuring P we would not harm him, carried him cot and all into the next room. Truth be told, it was a much better location: well lit, warm, and comfortable. The bed fit quite well between the sofa and the hearth, creating a cozy little residence. Once we fetched the tea tray and broth, Charles left and closed the door without a word.

I got P settled in, propped up on pillows by the fire, and poured him a cup of broth. When he sniffed it his eyes grew round, and abruptly he upended it and drained its contents in one long ravenous slurp. He held the empty cup out to me, broth dripping from his beard, and I could not help but laugh. I gave him the jar instead and left him to dispatch it. In the next room I could hear Charles moving about: thumps, bumps, doors closing, the ringing grate of drawn curtains. When he finally returned, he locked the door behind him and thrust the key into his pocket.

“He will have to know sometime, Charles,” I said.

“That may be,” Charles replied. “But not yet.” He began to pace the hearth, scratching at his hair in that way that told me his brain was contemplating many things at once. “Rose and John will be back tomorrow, perhaps tonight. They cannot know he’s here, not yet. No one can. When the time is right I will come up with some kind of explanation – a school friend, or a distant relative, or something.”

“He could be my cousin,” I offered.

“Yes! Yes, that could be it. A cousin of yours, a friend of mine. I haven’t seen him since we were children, so I invited you both to stay a few months at Linkholme. And then—”

“Link,” said P.

We both froze, then turned to stare at the cot.

“Linkholme,” Charles said. “That’s where we are.” He sat down on the sofa and gestured at the room around us. “That is the name of this house. Linkholme.”

“Link. Home.”

Charles smiled. “Close enough.” He looked up at me, beaming. “I knew it, Elizabeth. I knew it! One by one his cognitive skills will return. He just needs time. He’ll be just as he was before, Elizabeth! Think of it! Once his memory returns, we will have proof that my machine works! We will have revived not just a body, but a mind as well. A truly new chance at life. All he needs are his memories.”

“What he needs is a name,” I said gently. “I’m afraid I don’t have any cousins called The Patient.”

Charles’ glee waned. “Hmm. You’re right.” He looked at P and said, “I don’t suppose you remember your name yet?” This only got him a confused stare, and he sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to make do with some kind of nickname for now. Any ideas?”

“I named my first dog Dog,” I said. “This isn’t exactly my forte.” My eye fell upon the ridiculous woolen drawers, and I quipped, “Maybe we should call him Red.”

“Ret,” said P.

“Red,” Charles corrected him. _“Red.”_

“Ret.”

“You know, I once knew a man named Rhett,” I remarked. “When I was a girl back in Charleston. I didn’t like him, he was a bit of a scoundrel. It’s a lovely name, though.”

“It is.” Charles thought a moment, then said, “Well, alright then, Rhett it is. Rhett, this is my friend Elizabeth.” He touched my arm. “Elizabeth.”

“Liz.”

“I can live with that,” I said.

“And my name is Charles. Remember? Charles.”

“Link.”

“No, Charles.”

“Link.”

Snickering, I said, “I think you’ve been christened, Charles. You may as well accept it.”

Charles sighed. “Very well. You can call me Link. But not you,” he added, pointing at me. “Only him. And only here. Those are my terms. Only him, and only at Linkholme.”

“Of course, Dr. Neal,” I said.

Between us, Rhett smiled.

“Link,” he said. “Home.”


	5. Chapter 5

_ The Diary of Dr. Charles Neal _

_· Feb. 4, 1895 ·_

The past few days have been such a whirl of activity that I find myself neglecting this journal. That will not do! Fortunately Elizabeth thought to write down her impressions on Saturday’s events and gave them to me — I have not read them yet, but I did store them in this journal for safekeeping. My own recollections are still too jumbled and irrational to put into any sensible order, therefore I will take up the narrative after those events.

Rose and John arrived home around dinnertime on Saturday, bearing stories of family escapades and a piece of the wedding cake wrapped up for me as a good luck charm. (Rose never gives up hope, bless her.) They were tired from the drive, and as the following day was Sunday, I told them not to think of resuming work until Monday at the earliest. I did this because I truly wanted them to rest, but also in the hope that another day or two might pass before Rose began probing the upper floors with her mop and broom. John, being John, could not bear to be unoccupied and was in the stables at first light, but he promised not to take on anything too strenuous. Rose, being Rose, spent her Sabbath remitting the many sins committed in the kitchen during her absence. I began my Sunday in the fourth floor library with Elizabeth and Rhett.

I am still acclimating myself to the name — I thought it an odd choice when Elizabeth first suggested it, but it does seem to suit him. He appears not to mind it, at least, so it will do until his memory returns. From the look of him I imagine his actual name might be something rather more rough and arcadian, like Clyde or Earl. To be honest I would prefer Rhett. At any rater, by Saturday night he was resting again, after consuming as much broth and sugary tea as I could safely smuggle upstairs. Elizabeth and I saw no need to sit up watching him, but we thought it best if one of us slept in the library to keep him company. In the end we both did: Elizabeth lay down upon the sofa with her brother’s pilfered greatcoat as a blanket, while I curled up in the enormous Queen Anne reading chair beside the fire and tossed a knitted throw over my lap. I read a science journal for a while but found I could not concentrate on formulas and schematics — next I opened my journal to write, but there I had even less success. By this time Elizabeth was fast asleep, so I took out my sketchpad and pencils to pass the time until I dozed off.

After some while sketching in silence beside the fire, I became aware that I was no longer scratching out random shapes but idly drawing a likeness of the sock-clad foot poking out from the blankets nearby. Turning in the chair until I could see the entire cot, I switched to a fresh page and began again. Rhett lay on his belly, his head cushioned on a thin pillow, face turned toward the fire. He was wrapped from head to foot in blankets, but one arm had wriggled free of its woolly cocoon and dangled over the cot’s edge, bent at the elbow, exposing an excellent anatomical study of hand and forearm. I drew this in some detail, then turned to a fresh page and did my best to capture the sleeping face. But I found I could not do it justice, and after a while I closed the sketchpad in frustration and curled up in the chair to sleep.

Sometime in the night I awoke to a hand on my shoulder. I turned to ask Elizabeth what she wanted and was somewhat startled to realize the hand belonged to Rhett. He was sitting upright, long legs uncovered and feet on the floor, leaning over to grasp me. In the dim light from the fire I could see his eyes were troubled.

“Link,” he said, endeavoring to whisper.

I sprang up at once and threw the shawl aside. “Yes? What’s wrong? Is something wrong?”

He was clearly upset, but I could not tell the nature of his distress. I tried to help him find his voice by example, as one does when practicing a foreign language. “Do you need something, Rhett? Need? Yes?”

“Yes,” he said. “Need.”

He moved closer, leaning forward, and I did the same.

“What do you need?” I asked.

His distress was obvious now, and I found it upset me greatly. He moved closer still, his breath a bit ragged now, and squirmed against the cot in a manner which made my cheeks burn hot. He bit his bottom lip, struggling to put his desire into words.

“Link,” he whispered. “I need…”

I leaned closer. “Yes?”

“He needs to relieve himself, you dimwit,” Elizabeth snapped. Groggily she rose from the sofa, snatched up an empty pitcher, and shoved it into Rhett’s hands. “You shouldn’t have let him drink all that tea.”

Rhett seized the pitcher, spun away from us, and exhaled an enormously gratified sigh. I coughed and turned away while Elizabeth, shaking her head, flopped back down on the sofa and muttered something to herself which I chose not to dignify with a response. Instead I waited in discreet silence until Rhett turned back to me, and then I stood and took the pitcher from him, willing my face to remain clinical and impassive.

“I am a doctor,” I told him, though I wasn’t quite sure which one of us I was addressing.

After disposing of the pitcher, I washed my hands thoroughly and returned to my chair. Rhett was lying down again, curled on his side with his blankets drawn up beneath his chin, watching me as I took my seat.

“I do apologize,” I told him. “I should have thought of that. But, as long as you’re alright now.”

He nodded. “Alright.”

“Well, then. Good night.”

I settled back, tucking the shawl about me, and closed my eyes. After a moment I heard Rhett whisper: “Link.”

I leaned over. “Yes?”

He grinned at me. “Good night.”

 

The next time I woke, the room was bathed in a dim grey glow by sunlight leaking in around the drawn curtains. Elizabeth was nowhere to be seen, and Rhett was fast asleep. Carefully I stood and tiptoed silently toward the wash basin. After a few steps I stubbed my toe on a stack of books and yelped in pain, causing Rhett to snort and bolt upright, eyes round and hair askew.

“Oh,” he said. “It’s you.”

His language was returning, and entirely on its own! I was so pleased that I could not stop myself from smiling. “It’s me. How are you feeling?”

He stretched a bit, moving his shoulders and back. “Small bed.”

“Yes, I’m sorry for that. I should have thought ahead and brought in something bigger before we— I mean, I, uh, I should have put you in a guest room straightaway, after, uh, well. There’s a room up here with a proper bed, as soon as you are up and about, so...”

I realized I was rambling and clamped my mouth closed. Rhett stretched a bit more, flexed his hands a few times, then threw back the blankets and made as if to rise.

“Wait!” I exclaimed. “Let me help you.”

Judging by how rapidly his sutures were healing there was no reason to believe his legs were anything less than stable, but still I felt anxiety tighten in my chest. This was not part of my original experiment, and I do not enjoy unexpected variables. When he put his feet on the floor and shifted his weight onto them without pain, I was encouraged. I stood before him so he could grasp my shoulders to hold himself steady as he rose. Using me as leverage, he stood up. And up… and up... until he towered over me by at least half a foot.

“My stars,” I said.

Elizabeth entered then, to find me craning my neck to look into the bearded face beaming down at me.

“Well, look at that!” she said cheerfully. She had tidied herself, replacing her ragamuffin ensemble with a sensible brown skirt and white shirt, her hair pinned up like a proper Gibson Girl. She smiled at Rhett and said, “My, you _are_ a big one, aren’t you. I suppose we can get those stitches out in a day or two, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Rhett said. His red drawers had slipped low on his hips, and he hitched them up and gave us a lopsided look.

“That reminds me, Charles,” Elizabeth said. “Do you have any money? Well, I mean, of course you do, but have you any cash on hand? I must go into Asheville for day or two, and I thought I might get Rhett some clothes while I was there.”

“Is everything alright?”

“It’s Sunday, Charles. I’m having dinner with my parents. I do have a life outside your service, you know.”

“Yes, of course.” I had completely forgotten that it was Sunday. The truth is I rarely know what day it is anymore — I’ve had to consult the calendar each time I write in this journal, and even then the date is but a number in a square. Since Christmastime when I realized I could finally build my machine, the days and weeks have all run together — and since the morning we carried Rhett upstairs, I’ve forgotten the outside world exists at all.

I hunted for my purse while Elizabeth packed her bag and bundled up for the ride into Asheville. I asked her to pick up the latest scientific magazines for me, as well as whatever toiletries or sundries she might think of that would make Rhett’s stay more comfortable. She agreed, and with a kiss on my cheek and a smile for Rhett, she was gone. I shall have to do without her help for the next few days. My charge and I are alone.

“Well,” I said, “Are you feeling more yourself this morning? Any memories returned?”

Rhett considered for a moment, then frowned. “No. Nothing.”

“Well, it's still very early. Your speech is returning, and that’s a very good sign. Sit down, let me take a look at you.”

He sat upon the cot while I threw open the curtains, filling the library with bright winter sunlight. I then took a seat upon the Queen Anne chair and began an examination. Pupils are equal and responsive, eye movement coordinated and normal. Reflexes in both knees are responsive. Full range of motion and sensitivity in all ten fingers and toes — Elizabeth’s surgical skills are greater than even I could have imagined. He seemed amused by the latter test, pulling his great lanky legs up onto the cot and waggling his toes when I removed his socks. Then he caught sight of them, and his brow knit.

“...Is something wrong?” I said, endeavoring to keep my voice steady.

He stared at his bare feet, blinking, and then shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Could he have recognized that those feet were not the pair he was born with? He will have to know at some point, of course, but such knowledge should not be the first memory restored to him. It would be far too traumatic. I decided to distract his thoughts and quickly drew the socks back into place.

“Well, we know you can stand, but let’s see if you can walk. Ready?”

He nodded and we stood again, this time without him using my shoulders for balance. I tried not to marvel at his remarkable height and instead pushed the cot back so he could maneuver. He had no trouble walking! All the way to the bookshelves and back without a stumble or a hint of pain from his legs. I was over the moon.

“Perfect!” I cried. “That’s even better than I could have hoped for.” His quizzical look made me realize I had said too much, and I hastily added, “We’ll have Elizabeth take those stitches out when she gets back. You may have some muscle loss from your... illness, but with daily exercise you will be right as rain in no time.”

My words seemed to encourage him. He paced the room a few times, flexing his hands and shrugging his shoulders, as one does after lying in bed for an extended period. Then he caught sight of the window and walked over to look out at the brightening day. The sight of the snow-covered forest below transformed his entire countenance — no longer nervous or fretful but filled with familiarity and happiness, even joy. The winter sunlight on his face made him look almost ethereal, as if he had carried back with him something of the other world in which he had lingered for over a month. Such absurd sentimentalism is not worthy of a scientist, I know, but I have read my share of Goethe and Byron between my Tesla and Faraday.

Suddenly I had an idea. “Wait right here. I’ll be right back.”

I hurried down the hall to the spare bedroom where I kept my laboratory work clothes. Rummaging through the bureau I at last located what I sought: an old pair of workman’s trousers that had been reinforced with flannel to keep out the cold. They would fit in width, if not in length. In triumph I scurried back to the library — and stopped short in the doorway in horror.

Rhett had taken a seat at my desk and drawn his knees up in the bright sunlight, feet perched on the edge of my writing chair. Squinting at his shins, he was deftly picking out his stitches with my letter opener. Bits of black twine and dried blood fluttered down to the rug, forming a tidy pile of scabby black rust.

“What on earth are-rrr—” a loud retch cut off the rest of my sentence.

Rhett glanced up at me, raised an eyebrow, then returned his attention to the last few stitches. I averted my eyes and tried not to listen, stuffing the trousers against my mouth to stifle my gags. When I heard a metallic thump I cautiously opened my eyes — he had reached for my waste-paper basket and was sweeping the debris into it, mercifully removing the disgusting detritus from my sight. Looking up at me, he smiled and stuck out his legs, ringed by clean pink scars.

“All better!” he said.

“I’m so glad,” I croaked. Swallowing the nauseous lump in my throat, I retrieved the coat Elizabeth had brought and held it out with the trousers.

“These will be too short, but I think we can tuck them into some boots. John’s snow galoshes might just be big enough for you. Would you like to go for a walk?”

If Rhett looked happy before, now he positively beamed. He came over to take the coat from me — it was a bit short, but it fit him through the shoulders, and the worn leather suited him as if it were made for him. He held the trousers to his midsection, then looked at me and smiled.

“Yes, please.”


	6. Chapter 6

_ The Diary of Dr. Charles Neal _

_(record of Feb 3 cont’d)_

It was a splendid winter Sabbath, crisp and cold but sunny, and mercifully free of wind. The snow lay in a white carpet from horizon to horizon, and the heavens blazed in that particular shade of blue found only in a Southern winter sky. The past few days had been quite gray and dreary, so the timing was perfect for our clandestine excursion. As I led Rhett downstairs I kept out a constant watch for John or Rose ― finding neither, I secured two pairs of galoshes and we ventured out into the morning.

The time had come for the next step in my experiment: observational data. I’ve succeeded in resuscitating a person, but how much of that person was recovered? Can my machine truly restore a life, or merely start a new one? I needed to engage my subject in conversation to find out. I began with “small talk”, asking if he was warm enough and if the boots were adequate. He answered in the affirmative ― tentatively at first, but the more he talked, the easier words came. I then asked him if any memory had returned, and he shook his head no. This disappointed me, for by that time over 24 hours had passed. If this technology is to succeed, recovery must be immediate and complete. But I must remind myself that my apparatus is meant to snatch the living from the threshold of death, not to reanimate those long since dwelling there. There is no way of knowing how long Rhett lay exposed before he was found. Perhaps too much damage had been done. Recall the case of Phineas Gage: might a month of ice followed by the fire of Tesla wreak as much havoc as an iron rod? Perhaps he was not the best choice after all. Perhaps I allowed impulsive emotions to overcome rational logic.

But I digress. These thoughts came all at once, as such thoughts always do. In fact only a moment passed between Rhett’s shake of the head and his next words: the fateful question, delivered without preamble.

“What happened to me?”

I knew I must answer, but I also knew the answer could not be the truth ― at least, not the whole truth, not yet. Instead I asked him: “What’s the first thing you remember?”

He considered, scratching his beard in thought. “Lizzie. She was calling you.” (I managed to conceal my elation. He has no memory of the laboratory!) “And then you. You helped me. I thought...” At this he shrugged and looked away with an embarrassed grin.

“Go on. You thought what?”

“I reckon I thought you was a dream. Nobody ever did nothing like that for me before.”

“But how can you know that, if you have no memory?”

“I dunno. I just do. I always been alone. I’m... different.” He looked up into the morning light, and his eyes seemed to reflect both sky and forest together. “I always been different.”

The note in his voice and the expression on his face moved me to speak before I thought better of it.

“I’m different too.”

He looked at me and smiled, but said nothing. We walked on, our breath puffing out around us in white clouds, fogging my spectacles and frosting Rhett’s beard. I’ve never been much of an outdoorsman (hunting nauseates me, as does most manual labor), but a walk in the woods never fails to lift my spirits. But I was not allowed to lose myself in reverie very long, for my evasiveness had not gone unnoticed.

“Link.”

And so I told him the truth. “Elizabeth and I found you. We were out riding, about an hour from here over on the other side of the ridge, and we found you in... out there. We didn’t know for certain what had happened to you, so we brought you back to the house, closed your wounds, and warmed you up until you recovered.”

Every word of which is entirely factual.

Rhett considered this for a moment. He pulled his hands from the pockets of his greatcoat and examined the remaining sutures around his wrists.

“Elizabeth stitched you up,” I told him. “She’s a far better surgeon than I.”

He eyed me. “But you _are_ a doctor, though, right?”

“Yes, I am a doctor. I have a diploma and everything. I’d be happy to show it to you.”

My attempt at humor was rewarded with a smile, half hidden by the frost-stiffened beard. And then: “So… what now? I mean, I’m grateful to you and all, but I can’t pay you or nothing. I can work, though.”

“That’s not necessary. You needed help, I helped you. It’s my duty as a doctor and a Christian.”

“But I can’t just live here off your charity. If I’m better now―”

“What’s your name?”

He scratched his beard, and I nodded. “You are not better. And it’s not charity. You’re my patient. You’ve barely been on your feet for one day ― I could not in good conscience turn you out into the cold with no notion of who you are or where you come from. You must give yourself time to recuperate. You can stay here until your memory returns.”

“And what if it don’t?”

“It will.” I put as much conviction into my voice as I could, for I was trying to convince us both. “You will be just as you were before. I know it.”

After that we walked for awhile in silence, content to enjoy the weather and scenery. If Rhett had looked peaceful standing at the library window looking down at the trees, wandering out among them he looked absolutely serene. He seemed to belong in the forest, as straight and strong as one of the evergreens. What a marvelous thought that is ― I don’t know his name, his history, or his background, but I know where he belongs.

But his serenity was short-lived. In due course we passed the north ridge and emerged onto the bluff overlooking the lake, the water partially covered by a thin sheet of ice. I smiled when I saw it, thinking of skating with Elizabeth as children. But when Rhett caught sight of it, he froze where he stood. I asked him if he was alright, but he did not answer ― instead he stared down at the ice with his eyes bulging in fear, alarmingly similar to the panicked look on his face when he first awoke on the laboratory table. Taking him by the arm, I shook him and spoke sharply: “Rhett. Rhett! Look at me!”

My jostling caused him to tilt forward, and he gasped and jerked back, clinging to me as if I were the only thing stopping him from tottering over the precipice and plummeting to the ice below. But we were well away from the edge, and his sudden terror mystified me as much as it distressed me. And then I remembered Elizabeth’s words in the church cellar: _He must have drowned, poor thing._

“Rhett, do you remember something? What do you see? Tell me.”

He blinked a few times, then looked at me as if waking from a dream. “No, I... it’s nothing.”

“It seemed very much like something to me. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, I... I just don’t like heights, is all.” He looked down at his hands, still clasping me tightly. “Sorry I grabbed you.”

“That’s quite alright,” I said.

The difference in our statures necessitated craning my neck to meet his eyes, and what I saw in them gave me such pause that I could only stand there, as frozen as Rhett himself had been a few moments before.

He released me then, and stepped back. “I think I’m ready to go inside now.”

We walked back to Linkholme without speaking. ~~I risked a glance at Rhett’s face, but after meeting his eyes mine quickly averted and did not return. My cheeks smarted, but I knew it was no longer from the cold. I~~ _[this paragraph scratched out]_

We entered the house via the kitchen mudroom and took off our wet boots. Our outing was perfectly timed: Rose had left for church, and by the time she returned the boots would be dry and Rhett would be safely ensconced upstairs once more. We were heading for the back stairs in our stocking feet, brushing stray drops of melted frost from our coats, when a marvelous fragrance wafted over to us from the kitchen. Rose had left a large pot simmering on the stove, and the smell emanating from it made me realize how long it had been since I’d eaten anything. I then heard the most extraordinary noise which I realized was Rhett’s stomach, communicating its own emptiness with a fantastically loud growl. We looked at each other and laughed, grateful for the moment of levity.

“Shall we take our luncheon back up with us?” I said.

I fetched a basket and filled it with cheese, preserves, and biscuits left over from Rose’s last batch, then pillaged the icebox and retrieved some cold ham, iced tea, and the remnants of a buttermilk pie. Meanwhile Rhett leaned over the stove to peek at the contents of the pot. His eyes grew round again, but this time in delight.

“Beans!”

“Fetch that crock and we’ll take some,” I said. “Rose won’t mind.”

We piled everything on two trays and hauled our loot up to the fourth floor. In the library we hung up our coats, spread out our feast across the reading table, and sat down to enjoy a nice Sunday lunch.

I was curious to see how Rhett’s belly would cope with solid food after going over a month without it, but judging by the ravenous way he consumed nearly the entire crock of beans, it appeared to be functioning normally. Halfway through his repast he looked up at me and said through puffed cheeks, “Did you want some?”

“No, by all means,” I said.

He grinned and returned to eating, one arm curled around the crock like a wolf guarding its prey. A drop of bean sauce stained his beard, and I could not help but smile as I divided my ham and biscuits into equal portions.

A few mouthfuls later Rhett remarked, “So, Rose, she your wife?”

“Oh no ― my housekeeper. Her husband John is the groundsman here. They’ve both been at Linkholme since before I was born.”

“Mm. Lizzie, then?”

I nearly choked on a bite of ham. “Ehm, no. I'm not married. Elizabeth is like a sister to me ― we were playmates as children, and she’s been my research assistant ever since I came back from school. She has a mind for science, besides being an excellent doctor.”

“I didn’t know they let ladies be doctors.”

“There aren’t many, no. And still fewer lady surgeons, which is Elizabeth’s true talent. I’m more of a diagnostician, myself. I prefer to work with theory and research. Blood can make me a bit... unsteady.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” He arched an eyebrow at me, and I grinned.

“So Elizabeth is often my hands when I’m working, and I am her access to the medical profession. It works out well for both of us, especially since we are such good friends. She knows she can study with me because I won’t think her unnatural. I accept her for who she is, and she does the same for me.”

I stopped there, and resumed eating without further comment. Rhett shoveled in a few more spoonfuls, savoring them in blissful silence. He drew a forearm across this mouth, smearing it with red sauce, and reached for his iced tea.

“Not a marrying man, then.”

A crumb of biscuit caught in my throat, and I coughed and washed it down with a large gulp of tea.

"No."

Rhett glanced up from his beans, then returned his attention to finishing them off.

“Me neither.”


	7. Chapter 7

_ The Diary of Dr. Charles Neal _

_[record of Feb 3 continued]_

After our luncheon Rhett felt rather tired, so I left him napping on his cot and went down to my rooms on the second floor to bathe and change. As I was buttoning my shirt I heard a knock at my door, followed by Rose’s voice — I bade her come in, and she entered carrying an armful of my shirts. I chided her for working when she promised me she would rest, to which she replied:

“Rest? Have you seen the state of the kitchens? I think you set a pack of wild dogs loose down there every time I go away. I’ll just set things to rights down there first, sir, and then I’ll put my feet up.”

I smiled, for we both knew ‘setting things to rights’ is Rose’s favorite form of recreation. Soon she was happily occupied downstairs, and I returned to the fourth floor to check on Rhett.

He was still sleeping, which did not surprise me. He's only been on his feet for one day, after all, part of which was spent hiking outdoors — that plus a hearty meal was enough to sap his strength. Rest is always the best prescription. However, seeing him curled up on the cot brought another issue to the fore: his accommodations. Once Elizabeth returns Rhett can assume his role as my guest and be given a proper set of rooms, but for the time being I must make do for him up here. I went down the hall to the spare room, the one I use when working late in the laboratory — it still smelled faintly of ozone and electrical smoke, so I opened the window to let in some fresh air while I tidied up as best I could. The bed linens had been changed since I last used them, so I fetched another quilt, filled the water pitcher, folded some wash towels, etc. etc. Once I scraped the ashes in the hearth and refilled the wood and kindling baskets, the room was as comfortable as it would ever get.

I closed the window and returned to the library to find Rhett sitting cross-legged on the cot, scratching at his boisterous hair. He asked for the time, and when I told him it was after four o'clock he replied, “Gosh, I slept all day.”

“Nonsense,” I told him. “Rest is what you need most right now. I shouldn't have tired you out wandering around the woods.”

Something flickered in his eyes at the mention of our walk, so I changed the subject by asking if I might briefly examine him. After being outdoors in the cold, I needed to make sure his lungs were completely clear of the water he had vomited when first resuscitated. He agreed, so I fetched my stethoscope and took a seat beside him. Auscultation showed both lungs clear, which is excellent, as pneumonia is a very real danger this time of year. Heartbeat and arterial pulses were strong and steady, if a trifle elevated. Vision and hearing both appear normal. There appears to be little or no muscular atrophy, despite lying immobile for over a month. Some of this may be due to the nutrient solution, but most of the credit must go to Rhett's constitution. He truly is a remarkable man, and a fortunate one — almost as fortunate as I am to have found him.

I explained my findings, telling him he was in excellent physical health and needs only to regain his memories. He nodded all the while, as if I were talking in Hindi and he was feigning comprehension to humor me, and then he raised both hands and said, “So can I take these out now? They’re itching me something awful.”

“Oh.” I glanced at the sutures around his wrists and nodded. This time, however, I sterilized a pair of tweezers for his use rather than sacrificing my letter opener. I then set about tidying up the library while he did the deed. I was organizing stacks of notes on my desk when the tweezers landed on the blotter beside them with a soft clang.

“Thanks,” Rhett remarked as I shrank from them. He got up to toss the debris into the fire and then began walking about the room, stretching his long legs. Peering at the shelves, he asked, “All these books yours?”

“This is my research library,” I said. “The main library is on the first floor.”

“You got another one? How do you read so many books?”

“Most of the ones downstairs belonged to my parents. I moved my collection up here when I built my la— my, uh, my study area.”

“To be a doctor?”

“Yes. Well, and a scientist — I study engineering as well as medicine.”

That piqued his interest. “Engineer, like building things? I love building things.”

“Do you?”

He considered, and his countenance brightened. “I do! Huh, how about that? I remembered something.”

Inspiration struck then, and I went to the shelf where I keep my books on woodworking. Pulling down a large volume I said: “Perhaps this will help.”

Rhett followed me to the table, where I cleared aside the wreckage of our luncheon. He took a seat beside me, and together we began leafing through the book. I let him turn the pages for a time in silence, and watched his face for any sign of recognition. His countenance, however, remained inscrutable. 

“Does this ‘ring any bells’, as they say?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “I know some of this. I mean, I know what the drawings are, the tools and such. It’s all familiar.”

“There’s a passage about various professions... here. Right here, read this paragraph, it may spark a memory.”

Rhett squinted briefly at the text and shook his head. “It don’t.”

“But if you read the—”

“I said it don’t,” he snapped. Too late I took his meaning, and felt my face grow hot.

“I’m sorry,” I said. When he didn’t reply, I offered: “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know. I… well, I could teach you, if you like.”

He eyed me, and then his mouth quirked beneath his beard. “Maybe.”

We leafed through the book a while longer, until the chiming clock drew my attention. I looked up to see that the slanting afternoon light had waned into dusk. “Goodness,” I said. “It’s nearly suppertime. I should go downstairs and fetch us something.”

“I could come with—”

“No,” I said quickly, then added, “No need, you’re my guest. I don’t usually eat supper on Sundays, but Rose has been away and didn’t make Sunday dinner this week. That’s why she left the beans for us. I’ll just go down and fetch some, you stay here.”

I left him perusing the book and went down to the kitchen, which was by now uninhabited as Rose had promised. She had left the pot of beans for me, along with a dish of spoonbread left to bake as the stove fire waned. I filled a crock and carried it and the spoonbread upstairs with two bottles of John’s cider. Dusk had turned to night by the time I returned, and when I entered the library Rhett was lighting the kerosene lamp on my desk. We pulled the cot up before the fire and used it as a sofa, eating our meal in the cheerful light of the flames like a couple of boys playing at camp.

Watching him devour his beans, I couldn’t help but tease him. “Your appetite is healthy, that’s for sure.”

He grinned and dragged a forearm across his beard, smearing sauce on the cuff of his grey shirt. After a swig of cider he said, “You ought not to make fun of me. You’re my doc, you’re supposed to be taking care of me.”

“I’m not making fun of you,” I said. “And I will take care of you. I promise you that.”

He looked at me, then returned to his beans. I ate the rest of my dinner in silence. When our plates and bottles lay empty before the hearth, we sat side by side on the cot looking at the crackling fire. Neither of us said anything for a time, until finally Rhett spoke.

“Link, I want you to know I appreciate what you done for me.”

I felt a twinge of guilt at this, but I reminded myself that I have indeed helped him as much as myself (not to mention science and medicine in general). But I could not bring myself to accept his thanks, instead replying with: “I cleaned up the spare bedroom for you. You should be comfortable there tonight.”

“Where will you be?”

“I’ll sleep on the sofa again. If you need anything, I'll be right here.”

He smiled. “That’s good to know.” Sitting up straight, he yawned and stretched until his back popped and crackled, then scratched his beard with both hands. “I am kinda tired, actually. I shouldn’t be, I haven’t done nothing all day but sleep.”

“Which is just what you should be doing,” I told him. “You’ve only just got back on your feet, and you exercised quite a bit this morning. Rest is just what the doctor ordered.”

I took him down the hall and showed him to the spare bedroom. As I lit the fire I said, “I should have done this earlier, but it warms up quickly in here. There’s water for washing on the nightstand there, and the privy’s at the end of the hall. I know it’s not much, but it’s just for a night or two. I hope it’s alright.”

He glanced at me. “You know whole families live in rooms this big, right?”

Chastened, I shrugged and said, “Well… good night. I’m just down the hall if you need anything.”

I left him to his rest and returned to the library. Now that I was alone I took off my shoes and waistcoat, undid my collar, and curled up in the Queen Anne chair to read for a few hours. That was when I caught sight of my poor neglected journal. I decided to sit down at my desk and write out as much of the past two days as I could recall. After this I will lie down on the sofa and read until I fall asleep. 

I have dated this entry February 4 because I knew it would be Monday by the time I finished writing everything out — I did indeed hear the clocks chime midnight some time ago. But I find myself unable to sleep, and it was good to record so much in detail, even if I end up editing much of it later. If I am to keep a proper record of this experiment, I must write more frequently and efficiently rather than these long meandering passages.

Why does the word ‘experiment’ give me such pause? Rhett is not an experiment. I know that. He’s not a laboratory creature to be prodded and tested. The experiment here is the effectiveness of my resuscitation machine. I think I can safely declare that experiment to be a success. True, Rhett has amnesia, but he had been dead and frozen for over a month. Surely someone whose heart and brain ceased functioning mere moments before resuscitation would not suffer the same effect. And yet I can’t in good conscience call this research completed. Something more remains. I won't be satisfied until I see Rhett’s memory returned, so that I know his life has been truly restored. Only then will I feel I’ve done my best duty by him. What service is it to wrench a man from whatever afterlife there may be and thrust him back into this world with no friends or family, no home or possessions, not even a name? No ethical doctor could do such a thing, nor could any God-fearing man. No, Rhett must stay here until I have helped him all I can.

 

_ Personal Memorandum of Charles Neal _

I write this on crinkled sheets of loose paper, my hands trembling and smeared with ink — I will decide later whether or not to toss these pages into the fire. Part of me wants to tear out the past few pages of rambling drivel from my journal, for fear of what I might reveal, what I have already revealed. That journal is for data relating to my research, data which will help me make my apparatus available to medical science. My entries already wander too much, including too much minutiae and leading down paths which have no place in a scientific record. There is so much I’ll have to remove if I ever transcribe them for printing. But I have no personal diary, and there is no one here right now in whom I can confide. I can't sleep and I must write this down somewhere, or I will go mad.

I was awakened in the night by a loud crash. I sprang up at once, trained by now to do so whenever I sleep on the fourth floor lest some experiment go awry and burn the house down. As I strained to listen I heard a muffled voice, as of stifled words or low groaning. At once I threw back the shawl and hurried down the corridor towards Rhett’s room.

As I approached his door I heard his voice more clearly, and I recognized at once the sounds of a nightmare. Inside I saw that the fire had burned out, but in the glow from the coals I could just make out Rhett lying curled on his side on the bed, clad only in his red drawers, shivering from the cold as well as his unseen turmoil. His limbs twitched and jerked, and his breath came in rapid, shallow gasps. The water pitcher lay broken in a puddle on the floor, knocked from the nightstand as the bed shook and shuddered beneath his large frame.

I knew I must wake him: not only are nightmares damaging to the nerves, but if he cried out he might wake Rose or John. I lay a careful hand upon one shoulder and said gently: “Rhett. Wake up, Rhett.” Suddenly he gasped and clutched at his throat, as if he were choking — alarmed, I shook him and said more forcefully: “Rhett, you’re having a bad dream. Wake up, Rhett. Rhett!”

A hoarse cry escaped him, followed by a sob, and then a string of desperate, incoherent pleading and prayer. This cut off in a strangled noise as he clawed at his throat and breast as if trying to tear his lungs open. I seized him to stop him from hurting himself, and all at once he gave a loud scream and sprang awake, thrashing against me as if warding off an attack. When he saw my face he froze and stared at me in wordless terror, gasping for air.

“It was a dream,” I said. “Just a dream.” As his breathing began to calm, I quickly checked his pupils and felt for the pulse in his throat. “You were having a nightmare. Do you remember what it was?”

He shook his head, managing to say only: “I couldn’t breathe.”

I took his wrist to check the pulse there. Before I could find it, Rhett moved his hand and clutched mine, his fingers trembling as they closed. Abruptly I pulled free and withdrew. “It’s far too cold in here. I’ll stoke the fire and get you some brandy.” I glanced around for a towel to clean up the spilled water and turned to rise from the bed. Rhett held me fast, refusing to let me go.

“Don’t,” he said.

“But—”

“Don’t leave me alone.”

I looked down at his hand around my wrist. I could feel how unbearably close we were: me with my shirttail loose and my collar undone, my spectacles left back in the library, my hair in disarray; Rhett barely clothed at all, his chest sheened in cold sweat, shivering as his fingers moved to entwine with mine. In the glow from the coals I could see gooseflesh standing out on his skin. I opened my mouth to speak, but only stammered out an attempt at his name — the sound seemed to break something within him, and with the next breath he pulled me to him and we fell upon the bed in a violent kiss.

How can I describe it? No chance encounters or halfhearted fumblings in my university days could compare. There was no youthful ignorance, no tentative awkwardness — this was a man, and one who knew what it is to touch another. I could no more have stopped myself from responding than I could have prevented my heart from beating. We twined around each other, bare limbs against wrinkled cotton, each endeavoring to draw so close we might pass through one another — and then our hips aligned and a frisson more intense than any electrical current coursed throughout every part of me. But with it came a jolt of sudden, cold clarity, and with a wrench that was nearly painful I broke free and tried to pull away.

“This is wrong," I said.

Rhett’s face fell. “But I thought—”

“What I mean is, I’m your doctor. You’re my patient. It’s unethical for me to...”

He moved beneath me, reached down to touch me. “You said you’d take care of me.”

I tried to answer, but I could only drop my head with a wordless sound as his fingers closed around me and squeezed. I pressed my forehead to his collarbone and moved against him, unable to stop myself, then reached down to seek him as he had sought me. His head arched on the pillow and he sighed, but a moment later he pulled my hand free and shifted to let our bodies align naturally, using my weight to set the pace. The feel of him pressing so warm and hard against me was more than my poor body could bear — I haven’t been touched in that way in so long, and never with such tenderness and skill, and never by someone like him. Only two or three shifts of our hips and I cried out, biting my lip to stifle my voice, too far gone to feel shame at the sudden wetness between our bellies. My release sent Rhett into his own, and he clutched at my hips and followed me with a wordless shudder. I collapsed atop his chest, spent in every way, and lay there breathing in the dark.

Rhett’s hand moving up my back brought me back to my senses. I raised my head to look at him — he smiled down at me, and then lifted his head and pulled me close. My mouth met his with the gentlest pressure, his beard warm and soft against my lips. I rolled to one side, plucking my damp shirt free where it stuck to my belly, and lay beside him.

“Are you cold?” I said.

“Not anymore,” he replied. His eyelids were already heavy, and I knew he would soon fall asleep. Sure enough he gave me a drowsy smile and closed his eyes. After a moment, he said softly, “Do you mind that I call you Link?”

“No,” I said.

He smiled again, barely perceptible beneath his beard. “Beautiful Link,” he murmured, and then he was asleep.

I watched him for a little longer, and as my addled brain and body began to return to normal, the enormity of what had just occurred began to settle in. The room was frigid, and the chill cut through the fog in my head and snapped me back to cold, logical reality. I eased myself from the bed, moving as slowly as possible, and draped the blanket over Rhett’s still form. When he did not stir, I moved to the hearth to lay a fresh log on the dying fire. Soon the flames popped and flared anew, throwing shadows and orange light across his sleeping face. Still he did not move, and the sight of him lying there was like an iron band around my chest, squeezing out my breath. I fled, closing the door behind me, and returned to the library to collapse on the sofa and sleep alone. But there will be no more sleep for me tonight.

I may be a solitary academic with little social experience, but I’m not a monk. Rhett has unsettled me since I first set eyes on him, and not only because of his resemblance to the man I saw in my dream. How much can I trust my own judgment where he is concerned? How much can I trust my own discipline when he is near? The answer to both is: I can’t. I am closer to forty than thirty, and I accepted long ago that I would most likely never find someone with whom to share my life — the possibility is too remote, the consequences too dire. I am a nondescript person and lack the wit and charm of a Byron or a Wilde, and I have never been skilled at recognizing men like me. I contented myself with Elizabeth’s friendship, the care of Rose and John, and my small circle of acquaintances. But as I sit here now I can think of nothing but the way Rhett looked at me in the waning firelight. I think of the way he looked at me by the lake, and even earlier than that, the reactions he has kindled in me since the first time he spoke my name. I know now that I was not imagining these things. The knowledge is more intoxicating than alcohol, more potent than opium.

But I also know this: I am a doctor, and Rhett is my patient. I may reject backwards dogma, but I will never reject my medical oath. It is against every ethical directive to take advantage of a patient the way I have just taken advantage of Rhett. There is no excuse for my behavior. He may see no need to forgive me, but I doubt I'll be able to forgive myself. The real question, of course, is whether I can control myself the next time he looks at me like that. Sitting here in the dark, disheveled and half-dressed with our vital fluids drying on my belly, I can only confess that I don’t want to. 


	8. Chapter 8

_ Personal Memorandum of Charles Neal _

_Monday 02/04/95 ― afternoon_

Rhett is napping in his rooms and Elizabeth is resting after her journey, so I have stolen some time for myself to collect my thoughts. I am glad now that I didn’t burn the pages I scribbled last night (though I don’t dare look at them) — instead I folded them into a bookmark for an old sketchbook I found, where I now continue to write privately. It contains no drawings of value, so I can toss the whole book into the fire later if I choose. For now, perhaps writing things down will help me calm the whirlwind in my head.

I slept little last night, and was up before dawn. At daybreak I dragged myself down to my rooms to bathe and change, going as slowly as possible, until eventually I could delay things no longer. I knew Rhett would be awake when I returned to the library, and so he was. He stood at the window, dressed in the trousers from yesterday’s walk and his grey union-suit shirt, looking out into the morning light. The sun in his eyes and on his profile made him so beautiful that I fought the urge to turn and flee before he noticed my presence. I confess I briefly hoped he would not remember what happened — perhaps he’d been caught in some half-delirium brought on by his nightmare; perhaps we both succumbed to some mad delusion that was best forgotten, and we need never mention it again. But I could not hold onto such a selfish thought for long. I knew I must face him, and face the consequences of my actions.

He saw me then, and turned to lean against the window frame.

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“I reckoned maybe it was a dream. But from your face I see it weren’t.”

“...Oh.”

I pushed my spectacles up in an effort to hide the warmth in my cheeks. I wracked my brain for something cogent to say, but I could think of nothing. Rhett, however, seemed unfazed.

“You alright?”

“Am _I_ —?” Incredulity broke my silence, but at first all I could do was splutter a string of flustered syllables that eventually morphed into one long sentence. “I owe you an apology, Rhett, I know I do, but I won’t ask you to forgive me, or even excuse me — no, I won’t ask that, because there _is_ no excuse for my behavior, that is, I know there is no way that I can ever...”

Rhett frowned. “You didn’t like it?”

“Of course I— I mean— I— you—”

He was smiling now beneath his beard, and I drew in a breath and closed my eyes until I gathered my wits enough to speak intelligible English.

“What happened last night was wrong. Not because of what we did, but because I am your doctor. There are rules, Rhett. There are boundaries, and I crossed those boundaries. Taking advantage of a patient in that way goes against all medical ethics. It’s inexcusable.”

“Link. Look at me.”

I did so. He was walking toward me, hands up to display the healed pink scars around his wrists.

“I ain’t sick, and I ain’t soft-headed. I can speak my own mind.”

“Now, perhaps. Last night you were in a fragile emotional state. You were vulnerable. I had no right to do what I did.”

He stood very close now, and I could no longer look at him. He put a hand on my chin and tilted my face up until our eyes met.

“I needed you. I think you needed me too.”

“You don’t even know your own name,” I told him. “You could be married. You—”

“I’m not.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

I tried again to object, but he took my face in his hands and the protest died on my lips.

“Tell me true, Link. Do you think we done wrong?”

Looking in his eyes, there was only one answer. “No.”

“Because we didn’t. And if we didn’t do wrong, that means we done good. I know something good when I see it. You’re something good.”

He kissed me, and I could do nothing but respond. For a long time we lingered so: myself stretched upon my tiptoes with my arms about his neck; Rhett leaning over me, his hands entwined in my hair. When he finally released me, I gazed up at him in silence. His hands left my hair and moved down my back, then continued southward to grasp my bottom. He pulled me close until I felt him against my belly, unmistakable through two pairs of trousers.

“I ain’t fragile no more,” he said. “But I am in a state.”

The look in his eyes made my heart leap. The same sweet madness that overwhelmed me last night rushed upon me again, and I strove to hold on to reason. “You shouldn’t over-tax yourself. You’ve only been on your feet for two days. Remember you were—”

I stopped short in horror, for I had been about to say ‘you were dead for a month’. What has happened to my self-control??

Rhett only smiled. His fingers moved to my throat, where my blue silk ascot rested against my Adam’s-apple. One forefinger slid into the knot and tugged.

“What are you doing?”

He pulled the tie loose and slipped it from my neck. “I want to see you in the daylight.”

When I took his meaning, my cheeks caught fire anew. “Rhett…”

“Let me look at you, Link. I want to see the sun on you. Please?”

His voice raised a strange boldness in me, and I brushed his hands aside and unfastened the stiff collar myself. I set them both on the desk, a starched white circle atop a square of blue silk, and began unbuttoning my waistcoat with trembling fingers. Before I could shrug out of the heavy tweed Rhett was already slipping my suspenders from my shoulders and yanking at my shirttail, undoing all my careful primping. Soon waistcoat, shirt, and undershirt lay on the desk with shoes and socks tucked beneath it, and I paused with my hands at my trousers. I hesitated: standing there with my suspenders dangling about my hips, the blush creeping down my neck and the chill raising gooseflesh on my bare skin. Rhett said nothing, only smiled, and subtly bit his lower lip. I will burn these pages one day, so why shouldn’t I write it? Shame be damned. I _wanted_ him to look at me. I removed my trousers and then my drawers and there I stood, bare as the day I was born.

“Look at you,” Rhett said softly.

The cold air made me shiver, and with it came the sharp slap of reality. Chagrin flooded me, and I fought the urge to cover myself. My discomfiture seemed only to amuse him.

“Ain’t you ever been naked around another man?”

“No.”

“Never? Not even at a swimming hole?”

“No,” I snapped. “Does that make me deficient in some way?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Not from where I’m standing.”

My jaw dropped, and he laughed. I placed myself behind the sofa and said: “Have you seen enough? It’s quite cold in here, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I reckon I can fix that.”

He crossed to the fireplace and tossed a fresh log on the fire, stoking the flames with the poker until they crackled and roared. He fetched the blankets from the sofa and spread them over the hearth rug, followed by a pillow and the chenille throw from my reading chair. As he unbuttoned his shirt he said, “Well? You just gonna stand there and shiver?”

By the time I locked the door and abandoned my spectacles he was already sprawled naked beneath the throw, holding up a corner for me. It was blessedly warm beside the fire, and even more so beneath the soft chenille. I shivered and he pulled me close, until I gasped at the contact of our bodies. I had seen Rhett unclothed several times of course, but that was no comparison to our current situation. I was granted no time for contemplation, however, for as soon as I lay down he rolled atop me and kissed me until I was quite insensible.

Immeasurable time passed before he broke free and smiled down at me, his hair askew and his beard mussed from my clutching fingers.

“You took good care of me, Link,” he said. “Now I’m gonna take care of you.”

Before I could reply, he threw the shawl over his head and pressed his lips upon my chest and belly, progressing slowly downward. I realized his intentions and recoiled in alarm — such acts are performed by harlots and catamites, not gentlemen. At least, no gentlemen I have ever known. (Which, it must be said, is rather few.) Rhett emerged from the chenille, his hair rioting about his head.

“Something wrong?”

“Rhett, no. You mustn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because… it isn’t… it’s not decent.”

He laughed so loudly that my eyes darted about in fear the servants would hear him.

“It’s a mite late to worry about that, brother.”

He disappeared again and I began a fresh protest, but then his lips settled upon me and all faculties abandoned me.

I won’t demean it by trying to describe it. I doubt I could even if I wanted to. I have never experienced that particular intimacy — other touching, yes, the desperate frictions of youth, and once I practiced _ventre_ _á_ _ventre_ as we did last night (though not nearly as enjoyably) — but never that. The shawl slipped free and I made no attempt to fetch it, as all chill had long since turned to warmth. I was undone by him — utterly undone, brazen, wanton even, one hand clutching his hair and the other knotted fast in the blankets. At last I lay senseless, both expended and consumed, my heart beating until I thought it would burst. I felt Rhett stretch out alongside me and gather the blankets around us. He pulled me to him, pliable as a doll, and spoke against my ear.

“There now. Was that decent?”

With what breath I could gather, I managed only: “My stars.”

I heard his low laughter, but after that I must have dozed off, for when next I remember the sunlight streamed through the windows at a higher angle. I was hungry, and I expected Rhett was too, so I rose as gently as I could and began dressing. I tried to make myself as tidy as I had been before, in case I should meet Rose in the kitchen; but with no mirror in the library, I was obliged to do up my collar and tie in the glass of my framed Mendeleev Table of Physical Elements. As I pinned the four-in-hand, I heard Rhett’s voice.

“Why do you wear all that stuff?”

“What do you mean, why? This is how a gentleman dresses.”

“It looks like a lot of fuss.” He rose, clutching the shawl about his hips, and touched one mother-of-pearl button on my waistcoat. “It suits you, though.”

“What? Fuss?”

“Yeah.”

He kissed me, and the shawl fell to the floor. But just as all my careful work was about to be unmade, I heard the service bell ring. I bade Rhett stay where he was and went hastily to the door. At the end of the hall I leaned over the banister to call downstairs: “Rose?”

“Yes, sir. Miss Bassett’s arrived, sir. John’s seeing to her.”

“I’ll be right down.”

I asked Rhett to remain upstairs. He was perplexed, but now that Elizabeth had returned, the need to keep him sequestered had finally become moot. At last!

I hastened downstairs and found Elizabeth lugging two large cases and a hatbox toward the elevator despite John’s protests. Seeing me, she gave way and let John see to her things while she rushed to greet me. In my ear she whispered that one case was for Rhett, and then she launched into the most impressive theatrical performance, declaring how enjoyable her time with her parents had been and oh, by the way, I would never guess who had come to visit! None other than her second-cousin Rhett, surely I recalled dear old Rhett? I could only marvel at how smoothly she lied, inventing a tale of our long acquaintance, and how it had been since we had seen him, and surely I wouldn’t mind if he came to stay for a few days? He would ride up from town himself, no need to send John to fetch him. Rose was delighted — most likely relieved to confirm I have any social life beyond Elizabeth — and immediately bustled off to prepare a guest suite for dear cousin Rhett’s arrival.

And so Elizabeth went to bathe and change, and I returned to the library to inform Rhett of his new accommodation. I told him Rose and John were private people who were suspicious of strangers, and so we’d told them he was Elizabeth’s relative in order not to alarm them. I did not want to worry them by telling them Rhett was a patient found in the woods, lest they fear plague or pilfering or worse. It was a flimsy tale at best, but Rhett merely shrugged, his face inscrutable, and said it was my house and I could say what I like. When I told him that his rooms are adjacent to my own, however, his countenance brightened considerably.

Once Rose and John went back to their business, I smuggled Rhett downstairs to get him settled into his rooms. It’s quite an improvement from the fourth-floor spare room with its tiny window, creaky bed, and soot-stained flue. His eyes grew large when he saw the mahogany mantelpiece and wardrobe, the four-poster bed (more than adequate for his remarkable frame) with its crimson velvet coverlet, the silk wallpaper, crystal torchieres, and Persian carpet.

“People sleep in here?”

“I could bring in the cot, if you like.”

He raised an eyebrow at me, and it was my turn to laugh. I turned down the coverlet to show him the modest linen sheets beneath, then pulled back the curtains to fill the room with daylight, and he looked a little more at ease. The look increased when he opened the suitcase and saw the clothes Elizabeth bought for him. She made excellent choices: two pairs of sturdy twill trousers (one brown, one grey); two collarless cotton shirts (one beige, one grey gingham); a twill waistcoat in a lovely shade of reddish brown; suspenders, socks, boots, and a brown leather slouch hat. Nothing one could wear formally, but with her brother’s coat and the re-purposed union-suits, he will be quite comfortable. As he examined the waistcoat, I could not resist teasing him.

“Not too much fuss, I hope?”

For that I was rewarded with a kiss and a smack on the bottom. I watched as he shed the battered work-pants and thin undershirt and dressed himself in the brown trousers, beige shirt, and waistcoat. The trousers are a trifle short (memo: find out if Elizabeth knows how to let down a hem), but the shirt fits well, and the waistcoat looks as if it were tailored for him. It suits him wonderfully, and the color so compliments the golden tones in his hair and beard. I offered him my green Paisley tie, but this he refused — I suppose that was one fuss too far.

When Elizabeth emerged from her rooms, we waited a short while and then brought Rhett to the service wing and introduced him to Rose and John. He spoke to them as if they were equals and old friends, and they were both charmed by him. We had luncheon at 1pm (in the breakfast room to spare Rhett the formal dining room) — and then Elizabeth retired for a nap while Rhett wisely decided to lie down as well. I tried to catch up on my rest too, but sleep eluded me, so I returned to the library to write for awhile. I thought that writing these things down might calm me enough to rest, but I find it has rather had the opposite effect. I wonder how much longer Rhett will nap. At this rate I will never get a full night’s sleep again. Would that be such a terrible fate?

I hear someone on the stairs — the light step tells me it’s Elizabeth. I hope she’s not too tired after her journey. It will be teatime soon; I think we’ll take it up here. I look forward to discussing Rhett’s progress with her.

 

 _Later — night._ What a gift I have in Elizabeth: an exasperating, infuriating, blessed gift. I was angrier with her today than I ever have been, I think, certainly not since we were children. The last time I spoke to her in such wrath was when she threw mud on my clothes during a frog-collecting expedition. That conflict ended with her boxing my ears, but happily this one ended on an easier truce.

She came upstairs to find me writing in this book, as I noted before. I rose to greet her, eager to tell her about Rhett’s episode at the ridge overlooking the lake. I recalled the tale to her just as I recalled it in my journal, omitting only the look that passed between us afterward.

“Don’t you see?” I told her. “After a month of disuse, his brain has fully recovered in _two days_. His vocabulary is likely now what it was before. I’m sure his full memory will return any day now. He cannot read, but I doubt he ever could — I’ve been thinking that I might teach him, if he’s amenable to it.”

“That will take some time,” she said.

“I don’t think so — he’s quite intelligent. He has a mind for technical matters, but also for contemplation. I think he'll take to literature quite well. And even if he doesn’t, the cognitive exercise can only help jog his memory.”

“And then you and I can get back to work.”

Her reply confused me. It was only then that I noticed the expression on her face: careful, pensive.

“I thought that’s what we’ve been doing,” I said.

“I mean working on your machine, Charles. Remember your machine? The entire purpose behind this mad project? Now that we know it works, we must test it further so we can publish your findings. We have data to collate, patents to file, papers to write — you must redesign the apparatus for production so you can show the world what you have done. You do still mean to do that, don’t you?”

Her tone annoyed me. “Of course I do. I think we deserve to catch our breath first, don’t you? My patient needs my attention right now.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“ _Our_ patient has been receiving a great deal of your attention, it seems.”

Hot blood rushed to my face. “What exactly are you insinuating?”

“I was afraid this would happen. I’m not blind, Charles. You’ve been fascinated by him from the beginning. I saw your face when we found him. I saw your face when he first spoke to you. I saw your face when you introduced him to Rose and John. You’re infatuated with him.”

“Elizabeth! How can you even imply such a—”

“Oh, Charles.” She drew me into an embrace, though I remained stiff and unyielding in her arms. “My darling Charles. Don’t you know you will never find judgment with me? The last thing I would ever do is begrudge you happiness. Just because I’m content without a man doesn’t mean everyone should be. Who am I to argue with the Greeks?” I did not smile at her joke, so she rubbed my arms as she used to do when I was cross as a child. “But, sweetheart, you must know that the chances of Rhett being a kindred spirit are so small. You must try not to get your hopes up in that way. It would break my heart to see you disappointed.”

I did not reply, but my averted eyes and fierce blush were answer enough.

“Charles! You haven’t... I mean, the two of you...” Her cheeks were now as crimson as my own. “Well. I... well. You’re both adults, after all. There’s no harm in it.”

“No harm? I’m his doctor! He’s my patient!”

“Well, he’s not any ordinary patient, is he?”

“No, he’s an amnesiac. Which is a thousand times worse.”

She sighed and rubbed her eyes, and after a pause she nodded. “Well. Well, yes. Yes, it makes sense now.”

“What makes sense?”

“Why you didn’t want to tell him the truth. Why you shut up your laboratory. Why you seem suddenly uninterested in something that obsessed you for years. You’re attached to him, and you’re afraid he’ll reject you when he finds out what you did to him.”

My visage and my voice turned to ice. “What I _did_ to him? This is not some sordid undertaking, Elizabeth. This is my life’s work. I brought a man back from the dead. And yes, now I care for that man: it is my duty to care for him until he can take up his life again, and that is precisely what I intend to do. I have ‘obsessed’ with this, as you say, for a very long time, and if I can wait a few more days for fame and glory, so can you.”

“Now just a minute—”

“No. No, Rhett is in my care, but he is not my patient anymore. He doesn’t need a doctor. He needs a friend. In case it has escaped your notice, friends have never been in great supply in my life. As long as he wants me, I will be Rhett’s friend. So you need not lecture me as if I were a child caught with my hand in the sugar bowl.”

“I never said—”

“I heard what you said. Oh yes, I heard. You think I’m irresponsible. You think I’m dishonest! Don’t you? Admit it! You think I’m nothing more than a lecherous deviant who gets pleasure taking advantage of the helpless!”

“Charles!”

But once my tongue had loosened, I could not stop the words that poured from it. All the emotions churning within me combined in a volatile reaction and exploded in a sudden eruption of fury. I knew she had said nothing of the sort — quite the opposite, in fact. The accusations I hurled at her were aimed squarely at myself.

“Don’t ‘Charles’ me. No! You think I’m lying to Rhett for my own ends, using him for my own purposes! Well I'm not going to stand here in my own home and be rebuked by a woman.”

“That’s enough!”

“Don’t you shout at me! If I wanted you berating me like a harpy I would have married you!”

“How dare you—”

“I think you’re jealous of him!”

At this I expected an explosion of fury to match my own, but instead Elizabeth stopped short, blinked, and then threw her head back in a fit of laughter so hysterical she nearly choked. It was absurd, and the longer she laughed, the more absurd it became. I crossed my arms and scowled, the blood burning in my face.

“It wasn’t _that_ amusing.”

She wiped tears from her eyes, still snorting with mirth. “Oh, but it really was.”

I scowled harder, and she rubbed my arms again. “You’re not angry with me, Charles. You’re angry with yourself. You’re a good man, and you want to do the right thing. I didn't come here to criticize you, I came to help you, and that’s what I’m going to do. And yes, that includes looking after Rhett. If the two of you have formed an attachment, it can only be helpful to his recovery. But you must tell him the truth, Charles. He’s a good man, too, and he deserves that from you.”

“I will tell him the truth, I promise. But not yet. He’s not ready.”

“Well, you know him better than I do. Obviously.”

“Stop.”

“The fact of the matter is that Rhett’s memory might return at any time, and you must be prepared for what may happen when it does. He may have a family. He may have obligations. He may... well, you get the point. I love you, sweetheart, and I don’t want to see you hurt. I don’t want to see _either_ of you hurt.”

I took her in my arms for a sisterly hug, and apologized for my tantrum as profusely as I had uttered it. She assured me that all was forgiven.

Soon after this Rhett entered the library, refreshed after his nap, and soon after that it was time for tea. We decided to have it in the parlor downstairs, and I proposed that afterward we might take Rhett on a tour of the house and grounds, if neither of them were too tired. Rhett proved keen on this idea, saying he was eager to see “this whole great place”. As he fetched his coat, I paused just long enough to slip something into Elizabeth’s hand: the key to the laboratory. She closed her hand upon it and slipped it into her pocket, and put a finger to her lips as she smiled.


	9. Chapter 9

_ The Diary of Dr. Charles Neal _

_· Feb. 5, 1895 ·_

Today begins a new stage in this journal. As my patient no longer needs medical care, Rhett will instead remain here at Linkholme as my guest until his memory returns — which will be soon, if his convalescence is any evidence. In the meantime I have decided to learn more about the effects of his experience by teaching him to read and write. I am continually astounded that, despite being deceased for over a month, his cognitive functions are completely normal. Could my machine be responsible? Or might this remarkable recovery be due to death occurring in sub-freezing temperatures followed by a month in an icy cellar? Every doctor has heard the old wives’ tales of people retrieved from frigid waters, seemingly lifeless, only to revive with no ill effects. Does refrigeration preserve the spark of life or protect the brain tissues in some way? The premise is worth further study. At any rate, I will keep a daily record of Rhett’s progress in this journal, not for publication but for my own scientific edification.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth has volunteered to organize my research, notes, and schematics so I can begin compiling and revising them for publication. She also offered to transcribe this journal with my type-writing machine, which will help me decide how much I want to include. (memo to Elizabeth: all lines I have marked with pencil are NOT to be transcribed.) Once Rhett has regained his memory, Elizabeth and I will go to work in earnest and begin the long process of writing papers, filing patents, and refitting the apparatus for everyday use. This last, I fear, will take longest. When I built my machine I thought only of making it work, not how easily or practically it might do so. No one in their right mind would get near that contraption in its current state! When I sleep at night I can still hear that furious noise, smell the scorch and ozone, see the weird sparks showering across the still form on the table. My experiment is a success: the principles are sound, the results better than I could ever have predicted. Much work, however, remains to be done before the process can be reproduced for real-world application.

 _Later_ — _evening._ A very promising start. I’d first mentioned the idea to Rhett during our tour of the house yesterday, but he was too fascinated by the architecture to pay much attention. At breakfast this morning I repeated my proposal: teaching him to read and write in the hope that cognitive exercise will jog his memory. He was amenable to the idea, but his response was not as enthusiastic as I hoped. I told him he should feel free to say no if it doesn’t interest him, to which he replied, “It ain’t that.”

“Then what?”

He chewed a mouthful of biscuit in silence, then said softly: “I ain’t stupid, Link.”

“Of course not. Why would you say that?”

He glanced down at himself, clad in his smart new gingham shirt and twill trousers, eating bacon and eggs from a china plate. “I’m grateful for all you done for me, I really am. I’m staying in your house, eating your food, wearing your clothes... but I ain’t like you. I mean—” he glanced around to ensure we were alone— “I _am_ like you, but I ain’t never gonna be a gentleman and that’s just a fact. It don’t matter if you dress me up, and it don’t matter if you teach me to read your books. I ain’t never gonna be as fine as you, so you ought not waste the effort.”

I looked up from my own breakfast. “Now see here. You may not be educated, and you may not be a gentleman, and to be honest your grammar is appalling—” that got me a lopsided grin— “but you are every bit as ‘fine’ as me and if anyone ever says otherwise, you tell them they may take it up with me.” As I resumed buttering my biscuits I added, “And those are not my clothes. For one thing they wouldn’t fit me, and for another I wouldn’t be caught dead in those trousers without a matching coat.”

He smiled at me, and thus ended the philosophical debate. After breakfast we went up to the fourth-floor library to begin the first lesson. We soon realized he must have had at least some rudimentary education, for he can recite the alphabet and recognize all 26 letters and 10 numerals by sight. This makes things so much easier! I fetched two books that might interest him — a carpentry text and a book on the fauna and flora of North Carolina — and we spent the morning perusing them while I pointed out words and pictures corresponding with each letter. It’s astonishing how quickly he connects printed type with abstract language — before the first hour passed he was pointing out common words like “and” and “to” and remembering basic phonetic rules. I have no doubt he’ll be reading on his own in a few days.

After luncheon Elizabeth joined us for a walk. The weather has been so fine since the last snow flurry: still exceptionally cold, but sunny and with clear skies. I hope it is a sign that the worst of this winter is finally behind us. Rhett asked Elizabeth what she had been doing all morning; she told him she was reading dull medical papers, and then deftly turned his attention elsewhere. It makes me glad to see them get on so well. This afternoon she taught him to play checkers while I discussed household matters with Rose. Apparently Elizabeth mentioned riding, which piqued Rhett’s interest, and they’ve gone down to the stables so she can introduce him to her favorites. I am using the time alone to catch up on this journal and to go back through my entries to mark passages for transcription. If time permits before dinner I may begin another project — I have something in mind for Rhett’s first writing lesson tomorrow. If necessary I will stay up tonight to finish it.

Regardless of how this second stage of my experiment progresses, I meant what I said to Rhett this morning. I am no Pygmalion trying to fashion a blank stone into my own image. I want only to make his time here as pleasant as I am able. Whether or not we ever discuss literature, whether he wears tailored tweed or makeshift rags, his personality and nature are his own. I could not improve him even if I wanted to, for there is nothing to improve.

 

_· Feb. 6, 1895 ·_

I presented my handiwork to Rhett in the library after breakfast this morning: an exercise primer, which I made by turning a sketchbook into a picture book with a drawing for each letter. I chose objects I thought would amuse him, such as beans for B, tree for T, wood for W, and so forth. I drew the pictures in ink rather than charcoal pencil so they won’t smudge, and I left space on each page for him to practice forming the letter. He can then fill the rest of the book with own writing. It seemed a clever idea last night, but when I gave the book to him I felt suddenly nervous, fearing he might find it juvenile or patronizing. I fidgeted with my signet ring as I watched him thumb through the pages.

“You drew all these?”

“I thought you might like to have a place to write down your thoughts without me looking over your shoulder. Is it alright?”

“It’s...” He did not finish the sentence, only swallowed and shook his head. Slowly he turned the pages, grinning at each new image, until he turned from K to L and his brow quirked in query.

“L for a heart? Heart don’t start with L.”

“Love does,” I said.

He looked at me, then back down at the page in silence. Then he reached for a pencil and carefully traced a large capital L inside the heart.

“Yes, precisely. L for love.”

Rhett set down the pencil and smiled. “L for Link.”

I pushed my spectacles up on my nose and looked away.

By midday he had successfully copied all 26 letters, but when he tried to compose a few words he grew frustrated, so I decided to change lessons and spread an old newspaper across the table for him to pick out words he recognized. Reading seems to come easier to him than writing, which is common in adults. Even Charlemagne never learned to write more than his own name. Rhett will have better luck, I think. He is intelligent and thoughtful, and his interest in engineering indicates an instinctual grasp of physical and mathematical concepts. If he takes to literacy as quickly as he took to his feet, he’ll be writing his own patents before the year is over.

We’re going for our daily walk soon — I may try to write more after dinner.

 

_·Feb. 7, 1895 ·_

_(no entry)_

 

_·Feb. 8, 1895 ·_

_(no entry)_

 

_ Personal Memorandum of Charles Neal _

_Saturday 02/09/95. Before dawn._

These days are so delightful I can hardly believe they’re real. Can my life have changed so entirely in a single week? Nine days ago I was locked in my laboratory, buried in diagrams and dust, thinking of nothing beyond finishing my machine and declaring my discovery to the world. Now every day is a new discovery. And every night as well.

Since Elizabeth returned on Monday, the three of us have settled into a comfortable routine. The mornings are spent at study: Rhett and I in the library, Elizabeth in the laboratory next door. I told Rhett she is working on medical research, which is the truth; he has not been inside that room since we carried him out if it, and whenever he glances toward the door I always manage to divert his curiosity. In the afternoons we go for long walks in the forest, and Rhett points out the names of evergreens and the tracks of winter animals. (It’s amazing what knowledge the mind retains even when personal memory is lost.) On Tuesday we came upon John near the stables, shoveling the pathways clear of snow and ice. Rhett began asking him all sort of questions, and I realized he was trying to discover ways he might help out around the estate. Later on when we were alone I told him, “I don’t want you to feel obliged to me, Rhett. You owe me nothing. I have more than enough here, and I’m happy to share it with you.”

“For services rendered?” he said, and I pulled a chip of frost from his coat and threw it at him. When his laughter subsided he went on: “It ain’t that. Well, it is that partly, but partly it’s just that I like to be useful. I like this place, this house. It seems a mighty big job for John to take on by himself. Hasn’t he got any help?”

“He hires men from town when he needs extra hands. The house isn’t that old, and it’s well-built. John’s been taking care of it since he was young.”

“Well, I reckon he ain’t as young as he used to be.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind your help, if you asked him,” I said. “But I wouldn’t advise that particular line of reasoning.”

He grinned, and we walked on. Since then he has broached the subject with the diplomacy of one working man to another, and though John flatly refused the first time, he refused with less vehemence the second time. I have a feeling the third time will be the charm.

Each night Rhett and I have dinner with Elizabeth and then play games or talk together before bed. Now that “cousin” Rhett is here, Elizabeth can stay as long as she likes without scandalizing Rose, and therefore I decided the time had come to give her more permanent lodgings. I suggested she move out of the guest room she normally uses and into the suite once occupied by my mother. No one has slept there in over a decade, but not out of some Gothic morbidity — those rooms are meant for the lady of the house, and it was assumed they would one day house my wife. But I shall never marry, and if this house has a lady, it is Elizabeth. Rose did not argue with my orders, bless her, but only gave me a bittersweet smile and asked if she might have a day to uncover the furniture and make up the bed. Elizabeth, for her part, flung her arms about my neck with tears in her eyes. I’m sure Mr. Freud would have something to say about this arrangement, but frankly Mr. Freud may go hang. With three other people living here, there is nothing improper about it.

Rhett, meanwhile, remains in the guest suite down the hall from my rooms. Every evening Rose turns down his crimson velvet coverlet, and every morning she makes up the disheveled sheets and plumps the dimpled pillows. But Rhett has never slept in that room. Every night for the past five nights, when the others have retired and the house grows dark and still, I sit by the fire with a volume of Goethe and wait for the door between our sitting rooms to creak open. It does not close again until morning.

Five nights we’ve had together since that first encounter beside the library hearth. Five nights, each one a lifetime in itself. How can I describe it? Petronius and Shakespeare and Byron and Wilde — every story I have clung to in my loneliness pales beside his reality. He can rouse me to things I didn’t know possible in any man, least of all myself. I’m a scientist, but even if I were the most eloquent poet on earth I doubt I could find the words. He has erased the decades in a single week.

He lies beside me as I write this. His face is turned toward me, his hair a golden riot on the pillow. (I must admit, unruly as it is, it suits him. I wonder if it looked so before I sent all those volts coursing through it.) I’m glad my writing hasn’t disturbed him. I woke early and couldn’t sleep, so I lit a candle and opened this makeshift diary to reflect a little. Each day I mean to write in my journal, but as the hours go by it somehow doesn’t seem important. I told myself that if Rhett’s memory had not returned by Wednesday, I would tell him everything... and then Wednesday came and went, and Thursday, and Friday, and here I am. I will tell him, but not yet. Why not wait until it happens naturally? Today is Saturday: perhaps I should wait out the week and tell him on Monday. Yes. Until then, why dwell on it? I would rather think about what has been than what may be. I must go into town today to order more supplies — perhaps I will take him with me. I must enjoy these days while I can.

The sun is rising outside my window. The light between the curtains has turned from gray to pinkish-gold. Rhett always wakes with the sun. I will end now, and lie here with him until he does. Perhaps I will awaken him myself. Why not? He awakened me first.

 

_02/10/95_

I must try to write or else I will go mad. It’s not that I want a record of this — I have no desire to recall the past 24 hours ever again. But as I sit here in the silence with only the light of the fire on these pages, I must occupy my mind somehow lest all the thoughts and feelings crowding in on me should overwhelm me entirely.

Yesterday began as any other day. After breakfast I met with Rose before my trip to town, and when I went upstairs I found Rhett at the library table, hunched over some unseen activity. With his free hand he was eating a slab of cornbread, and when I entered he set it down in a rain of crumbs and hastily hid something behind his back.

“What’s that?”

“It ain’t done yet.”

“What is it?”

He hesitated, then lay a sheet of paper on the table. It was a quite passable ink sketch of a forest scene: evergreen tree line, birds in flight, faint shape of mountains in the distance. In the foreground were two tiny figures in winter coats: one wearing a bowler, the other a slouch hat. Beneath the sketch ran a single line of careful, steady writing: _To My Link. This Is For You. From Ret._

I picked up the paper, silent.

“Is it good?”

I opened my mouth to point out the flaws, but instead I said: “It’s perfect.”

He gave me a smug grin. “I been practicing.”

“When? We’re together all the time.”

“You’re a heavy sleeper.”

“Oh. Well.” I placed the paper back on the table and cleared my throat. “I must go into Asheville today. I need to order some things for my work, supplies and such. I thought you might like to come with me.”

His smile ebbed. He paused, then said slowly, “No... no, I don’t think so.”

“Aren’t you getting tired of being cooped up in this house?”

“Cooped up? In this place?” He retrieved his cornbread as if to continue eating it, but set it down without partaking. Instead he ran a hand through his beard, plucking at it in that way he does when he’s thinking. “I, uh, I’m not partial to towns, is all. Too many people. I’ll stay here, if that’s alright.”

I was disappointed, for I was looking forward to a ride through the countryside with him. But I understood, and the more I thought about it the more I realized he was likely right. What if we met someone who knows him? The chance was small, and yet. Better to wait until his memory returns before venturing out in public.

“Of course,” I told him. “I’ll be back before sundown. Elizabeth knows this house as well as I do, so if you need anything, just ask her. Is there anything you’d like me to get for you while I’m out?”

Momentary discomfort gone, he smiled at me and stood. “There ain’t a thing I need.” He pulled me to him for a kiss, and when it was over he added, “Just this.”

I brushed a cornbread crumb from his shirt and smiled too.

The day began clear and sunny, but as the morning went on the sky grew increasingly overcast. By the time I reached Asheville the clouds were pewter gray, with the ominous edge in the air that precedes heavy snow. I prayed I would make it home before the flurries began, as I loathe being outdoors in bad weather. I ran my errands as quickly as possible, placing orders at the chemist, the apothecary, and the stationer; then the dry-goods grocer, the post office, and lastly the confectioner. With a sassafras stick between my teeth I fetched the brougham and headed home, keeping one eye on the heavens. The horse seemed to sense the approaching storm, for he increased his pace without my urging. By the time I started up the hill to Linkholme a sinister wind blew through the pines, and though the sun had not yet set, silver dusk had already settled about the house. I handed over the brougham to John and warned him to get indoors as quickly as possible, then entered through the kitchens so I could hang my hat and coat up to dry.

As I was warming my frozen hands before the stove, the kitchen door blew open and Elizabeth hurried in, shivering as she removing her coat and hat.

“Oh good, you’re back,” she said. “I was hoping you’d be home before the snow. It’s going to be a bluster, that’s for sure. I was just helping John bed down the horses. Rose made chicken for dinner.”

I glanced around. “Where is Rhett?”

“How should I know? Probably staring at the joists in the gallery or something.”

I whirled in alarm. “You don’t know where he is?”

“We played checkers earlier, then he went to take a nap. I haven’t seen him since. Why?”

“What do you mean why?” I cried. “Weren’t you watching him?!”

“He’s not an infant, Charles. I’m not his minder. What’s the matter with you? Wh—”

But I had already abandoned the stove and was running toward the stairs. I bounded up three flights like devils were behind me, while Elizabeth followed calling my name. On the fourth floor I rushed down the hallway to the laboratory, where the padlock hung open on the latch. I wrenched it free and burst through the door, and froze where I stood.

There amid the uncovered equipment and stacks of papers stood Rhett, leaning heavily against the wooden table on which his corpse had once lain, his face pale and his hands trembling, reading one of my notebooks with round and horrified eyes.


	10. Chapter 10

“What are you doing in here?”

Rhett did not flinch at my outburst, merely looked up from the pages without speaking. Footsteps echoed in the hall and Elizabeth rushed up behind me.

“What on—? Oh!”

“You left the door unlocked!” I hissed at her.

“I did not! Charles, I—”

“I took the key,” Rhett said. “I seen you use it enough.” Fixing his eyes on me, he added: “I ain’t stupid.”

The ice in that glare sent a spike of dread through my heart. I touched Elizabeth’s arm and said, “Give us a moment alone. Please.”

She began to protest, but decided against it. Looking at each of us in turn, she nodded and squeezed my hand before turning to go.

I closed the laboratory door and leaned against it, watching Rhett’s face. I conceived and abandoned a thousand sentences within a few heartbeats, but at length I could only say again: “What are you doing in here?”

Rhett held up the journal — it was my schematics book — and jabbed at a page with one forefinger. “What’s this word?” When I did not reply he took a dangerous step forward. “What is this word.”

“Experiment.”

“And this one?”

“Apparatus. It means machine.”

“I know what apparatus means. I ain’t a god-damned idiot.”

“Of course not.” I took a step closer, but thought better of advancing any further. “Rhett, please, if you would just let me—”

“No. You ain’t talking now. I’m talking. And you’re gonna listen.”

I sighed. “Alright.”

He turned to the next page: a large diagram illustrating the layout of the machine and its patient prior to resuscitation. His finger stabbed at the faceless shape lying on the table.

“Is that me?”

“That’s a blueprint for the—”

“Is it me?”

“Indirectly, I suppose. Yes.”

A look of horror washed over him. “What did you do to me?”

“I saved your life.”

“No.” He flipped back to the beginning, his hands moving wildly, and pointed at another line. “That says ‘body’. That was me. I was the body. That was me!” His voice grew distraught, almost panicked. “You didn’t save my life. I was already dead _. I was dead!”_

In a fit of emotion I snatched the book from his hands and flung it across the room. It hit the floor with a loud thud and a flutter of torn pages. Before I could do anything else, Rhett surged forward and seized me by the waistcoat. He shoved me to my back against the wall, rattling the charts on their hooks.

“Whose hands are these?” he shouted. I said nothing, and he shook me violently. “Answer me! They ain’t mine, are they? Are they!”

“They are now,” I said.

All the color drained from his face. He looked at the fists gripping my clothing, and then abruptly he let me go and stared down at his open palms, his eyes gone round and wild.

“I knew it. I was dead. I was dead, and you stitched me up outta pieces of other people like some kinda… thing. The body. The experiment. The _apparatus_.”

“I saved you—”

His head whipped up. “Was you ever gonna tell me?”

“Yes! Of course I was!”

“No, Link, I don’t think you was. I think you was just gonna keep me here forever without knowing nothing. Like I was your pet. A toy you made to dress up and play with.”

“No!”

“You tell me the truth. All of it. Right now.”

My head began to throb, and I sighed and removed my spectacles to rub my tired eyes. “This is not how I wanted this to happen.”

“Well this is how it’s happening.”

He watched me as I retrieved the notebook from the floor and closed it. I laid it on the table and let my hand rest upon it, near the place where his head had once rested.

“What I told you before was the truth. Elizabeth and I found you, and we brought you here, and we healed your wounds. But we didn’t find you in the forest. We found you in a church, in the cellar. In a coffin.”

Rhett’s eyes grew huge. His knees buckled and he sat down heavily on a storage crate. One hand went to his mouth, but then he winced and drew it back in dismay.

“We didn’t know who you were — there was no name, no next of kin, nothing. Our best guess is that you drowned in the lake. Your hands and feet were too damaged to repair, so we replaced them. Elizabeth did, actually. She performed the surgery herself. No one’s ever done it before — she and you are the first. The replacements were taken from medical cadavers. Honestly I wasn’t sure it would even work, so I never thought beyond making sure that it did. I didn’t stop to consider the philosophical implications of giving you someone else’s hands and feet — I thought only of seeing you live to use them. That was my only goal: giving you life again. I couldn’t think of anything beyond bringing you back to life.”

He managed a cracked whisper. “…Why?”

“I’ve studied the principles of resuscitation for over a decade. It’s my life’s work. I knew I’d found a feasible method, but I had to be sure it worked before I told anyone about it. This—” I gestured at the equipment all around us— “is meant to save the life of someone on the verge of death, to restart the heart and revive the brain. But I couldn’t risk testing it on a dying man, or else I might do more hurt than good. I might hasten death rather than reversing it. I had to test it on a man who was already dead, because then if the machine failed there would be no harm.”

“No harm?! I was dead! I wasn’t dying, I was dead! You can’t just play God like that! If I’m meant to be dead—”

“If you were meant to be dead then you still would be! Don’t you see? My parents drowned, Rhett. They drowned, just like you did. They could have been saved if there had only been some way of reviving them. But now I’ve found one! Don’t you understand? I know this machine works because of you, Rhett. If it could bring you back, it can save anyone. Everything I have ever worked for is proved in you. Because of you, countless lives will be saved.”

“What about _my_ life?”

“What about it?” I cried. “You have one again! It was over, now it’s not.”

“Maybe it’s supposed to be! Didn’t you ever think about that?” He ran both hands through his hair until it stood up all over his head. He was close to hysteria now. “Didn’t you ever think about me? Who I was, how I ended up in that box? Didn’t you ever think maybe I was better off?”

“No one is better off dead.”

“You can’t say that. You ain’t God and you don’t know everything. Why did you pick me? You don’t know me, you don’t what my life was. Maybe I ain’t got no life. Maybe I got nobody, nothing, nowhere to go—”

“You have me!”

He stared at me, stunned into silence. I went to him then, crouched before him.

“Rhett, look at me. Look at my eyes. I am so sorry. It was never my intention to lie to you. I meant to tell you everything. That’s the truth, I swear it. I was hoping your memory would return, and that would make things easier for you. But then it didn’t, and the days went by, and we… I didn’t…”

“You didn’t want me to leave,” he said softly.

I took one of his hands in mine, closed it between my own. “These are your hands. I gave them to you. They are _yours_.” I pressed one palm to my heart. “As I am.”

He blinked down at me, and I could see the turmoil in those beautiful eyes. His fingers trembled against my chest, and a tear slipped from one cheek and fell upon my arm. I tried to muster a smile.

“Come downstairs with me and I’ll tell you everything. I didn’t want you to see this room until you knew everything. I knew it would frighten you.”

His brow knit, and something changed in his eyes. His gaze turned hard and cold, and he recoiled and wrenched his hand from mine.

“I knew it.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

Abruptly he stood and backed away, knuckling the tears from his eyes. “You don’t wanna frighten me? I ain’t simple, Link. Just cause I ain’t a doctor don’t mean I can’t understand anything.”

“Rhett—”

“That ain’t my name.” When I reached for him he shoved me off brutally and roared: _“Don’t touch me!”_

Before I could react, he pushed past me and fled from the room. I ran down the stairs after him, but he reached his bedroom and slammed the door in my face just as I seized the handle. I turned the knob and shouted his name, but the latch was locked fast.

“Rhett, open the door,” I pleaded, but there was no answer. I tried again, and a third time, and then I put my forehead to the oak and closed my eyes against the sting of tears.

A hand fell upon my shoulder, and I heard Elizabeth’s voice. “Give him time, Charles. It’s a lot to take in. You mustn’t rush him.” She took my arm and gently turned me from the door. “Come. Let’s go get something to eat, and then you can bring him a tray. You need food. Come on.”

Too despondent to object, I allowed her to lead me downstairs to the kitchen. She fixed me a place and commanded me to eat, but despite her cajoling I ate nothing at dinner, only a glass of wine to calm my nerves. I started up at every small noise, but it was only the sounds of the deteriorating weather outside — there were no steps creaking on the stairs, no footfalls in the corridor.

“Try to eat something, Charles. You’ll make yourself ill. Rhett will come down when he’s ready.”

I could only stare into my wineglass. “I should have told him.”

“You meant well. He knows that. Remember the old saying—”

“The road to Hell is paved with good intentions?”

“I was thinking more of ‘it’s the thought that counts’.” She reached over to pat my hand. “I’ll tell you what. You go upstairs and splash some water on your face, and I’ll fix a tray for Rhett. If he opens the door, you can make it a peace offering. If he doesn’t, I’ll leave it and you can try again later.”

I nodded, but I was only half listening.

In my bedroom I loosened my necktie and undid the top button of my collar, then bent to splash my face with frigid water from the basin. Outside my window the wind howled so fiercely that the flames in the hearth whirled and danced in the updraft. From the sounds of it, the squall was well on its way to becoming a February blizzard. I walked over to the window to look out at the yard below. Night had fallen and the blowing snow obscured everything, but if I squinted I could just make out the shapes of a few buried hedges reflecting light from the house. A shadow moved there: a shape barely visible, a figure struggling through the snow toward the trees. It was tall, remarkably so, and carried something on its back like a sack thrown over the shoulder. As I watched, the figure seemed to stop and turn to look up toward my window, framed in reflected light.

Cold horror washed over me. I reached for the window latch, but the shape was gone.

I ran to the door connecting my dressing room to Rhett’s and tried the lock, shouting his name. There was no answer. I shook the door until it rattled on its hinges, to no avail. From the hall I heard Elizabeth call me, then the sound of clinking silver as she set down the tray.

“Charles? Are you alright?”

I put my shoulder to the door and threw myself against it with all my strength — once, twice, and again, as Elizabeth rushed to my side. I threw myself against the door once more and the jamb splintered, sending the door flying open and myself sprawling to the floor. I sprang up and ran into the bedroom with Elizabeth at my heels. My calls became a string of obscenities when I saw the cold ashes in the hearth, the open wardrobe, the undisturbed bed. I fumbled for the lamp and searched bedroom, bathroom, and dressing room, but all three rooms were empty.

As I reentered the bedroom I saw something on the nightstand: Rhett’s exercise book, with a folded note lying atop it. I reached for the note and opened it with trembling hands. Scrawled across carefully drawn lines were three painstaking sentences in large, unsteady script.

_I had to go. I lov you but I cant stay. Good By. R._

The paper fell from my fingers and drifted lazily to the carpet.

_I lov you_

“Charles? What is it? What’s happened?”

I looked down at the note, and Rhett’s handwriting swam before my brimming eyes.

“My dead man wrote a letter,” I said.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _tw: mention of suicide (not graphic)_

“I don’t understand. Charles, talk to me. Where is Rhett?”

“He’s gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?” Elizabeth snatched up the note, then looked at me in shock. “He went out in _this?_ Has he gone mad?”

I had returned to the window, where I stood watching the snow beat against the frost-crusted glass.

“No, he’s not mad. But I think I was.” I saw her reflection behind me in the glass, and it seemed to snap me into focus; abruptly I whirled round and seized her by the shoulders. “I know where he’s going. I’m going after him. You stay here, and if anyone should—”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Elizabeth—”

“He won’t last half an hour out there. If you go alone you’ll both freeze to death. You need me to drive the sled. Go put on some clothes — and fetch as many blankets as you can find, fur if you have it. He’ll need them.”

I could say nothing, but only squeezed her hand. I had never loved her more than at that moment.

We separated just long enough to throw on warm clothing, and then Elizabeth went out to the stables while I gathered blankets from the linen closet. By some miracle Rose and John had not emerged from their room — perhaps the weather had muffled my outburst — and I rushed unchecked from the kitchen and into the tempest. The squall had grown into a true February ground blizzard: biting cold and savage wind that seemed to come from all directions, driving snow into every crevice and numbing my extremities before I even reached the stables. I got the door closed just as Elizabeth finished hitching one of John’s drafts to the lighter sledge.

“Can he go out in this?”

“If we don’t take too long.” She petted the horse’s neck, now wrapped with a winter driving blanket. “So we’ll just have to find him quick, won’t we, Belvedere? Yes, we will. There’s a boy. Come on.”

She had spread horse blankets across the sled’s interior to make a box bed, and I added my own to the pile as she guided the horse outdoors. As I struggled to shut the door behind us I had my doubts as to whether any horse could maneuver in that weather — I had no choice but to trust Elizabeth’s knowledge of such matters. We had a far better chance of finding Rhett and bringing him back this way than on foot.

As we set off across the yard, the wind set the sled’s headlamps swinging wildly on their hooks and drove snow into our eyes, and we huddled against each other for warmth and tried to peer into the darkness ahead.

“He’ll die in this,” Elizabeth shouted. “Where is he going?”

“To the lake.”

“The lake? Why?”

I did not answer, but then a look of horror came over her face and I knew she had made the connection herself. She said nothing, only gripped the reins to urge the horse onward.

The forest provided a slight shelter from the wind, but though the lamps sent a tunnel of thin light through the trees I could see only a few feet before me, for I was obliged to remove my spectacles. I squinted as best I could, praying every blurred shadow would be Rhett, but there was only endless trees and snow. I began calling his name, though I knew it was futile — the wind stole my voice before it could travel far, and Rhett would not have answered even if he heard me. He had the advantage of a head start and could move more nimbly on foot, and the wind obliterated any tracks as quickly as they were made. But though a sleigh is faster than a man, Elizabeth dared not drive too quickly — in that weather we might have crashed into a tree or gone hurtling over the ridge before we realized where we were. Thankfully the horse had more sense than either of us and seemed to know his way. Soon clouds of steam from his muzzle joined the snow and ice whirling through the circle of pale light. I shouted myself hoarse, but in my mind I was frantically recalling my medical training — in these conditions frostbite and hypothermia might occur within 10 minutes, and Rhett had been gone at least twice that long. Reciting treatment protocols in my head helped distract me from the fact that if Rhett reached the lake before we did, those protocols would be unnecessary.

An excruciating eternity passed before we reached the rocky promontory overlooking the lake. As soon as my eyes could make out the stones, I leaped from the sled while it still moved and dashed ahead toward the trees where Rhett and I had paused on that fateful afternoon. All the terror and panic I held at bay rushed upon me as I peered over the precipice, certain that I would see a broken corpse crushed on the ice below. I saw nothing. I fished the spectacles from my pocket with shaking hands, looked again — the ice was undisturbed. I tried to shout Rhett’s name, but my voice failed me. And then my breath failed me as well, for when I turned my head I saw a still shape lying curled beneath a tree, wrapped in a leather coat dusted with snow.

I ran to him and fell upon my knees. He lay unmoving, curled in on himself with his head pillowed on his bag and his coat’s hood drawn over his face like a shroud. I rolled him to his back and turned his face toward the dim light. His skin was frigid, his nose and lips bloodless and grayish-white, his eyelashes and beard crusted with frost. He did not move, and he was not shivering. Frantically I felt for a pulse.

Elizabeth crouched at my side. “Is he alive?”

I nodded, incapable of speech, and together we struggled to lift him onto the sled. The moment Rhett lay sprawled upon the horse blankets, Elizabeth climbed atop the driver’s seat and seized the reins, and the horse gratefully sped off towards home.

I knelt in the back beside Rhett and covered him with every blanket I had brought with me. He remained unresponsive, but I could see shallow breaths curling from between his parted lips. I checked his ears for frostbite but could not see in the darkness, so I tucked the blankets about them as best I could to shield them from the wind. My hands clenched and unclenched in frustration, for there was nothing else I could do until we got him indoors — except for one thing. I tore open my coat and shirt and lay down beside him, squirming beneath the blankets until I could pull him into my arms and give him my body’s warmth. I found one frigid hand pressed it to my breast, chafing it as best I could, and all the while I spoke into his ear although I knew he could not hear me.

“I’m here, Rhett. Link is here. I’m taking you home.”

Elizabeth pulled the sled as close as she could to the kitchen door. We dared not use the elevator — the shrieking gears would certainly wake Rose and John — but together we hauled Rhett’s limp form up the stairs and through my rooms into his. As soon as he fell across the bed, sending ice crystals raining across the coverlet, Elizabeth turned and left without a word. (To shelter the horse — bless the creature!) In her absence I had to work quickly.

First I stripped Rhett of his coat and boots, and threw them with my own in a wet pile in the corner. I then stripped him of the rest of his clothing as well. When he was naked I got him beneath the bedclothes and tucked them close about him before spreading a great fur-lined blanket over all. I then threw two fresh logs onto the fire and stoked the flames as high as I could get them, until the hearth roared like a furnace and my shirt clung to my back from sweat. Next I knelt on the bench at the foot of the bed to draw Rhett’s bare feet from beneath the blankets. His boots had protected them somewhat, and though toes were reddened I could not as yet detect any frostbite, so I covered them once more and set a soapstone on the hearth to warm for them. Finally I moved to his hands. I drew the right one from the blankets and examined it in the light: the fingers were bloodless white and slightly swollen at the tips, but not yet violet or black, and I breathed a prayer of thanks as I began carefully chafing them as I was taught. If I could restore circulation before the blisters formed, the tissues might yet be saved. But despite my best efforts, Rhett’s fingers remained stiff and frigid, grayish-white in color. I could not avert the memory of the last time his hand lay so cold and slack between my own… and then earlier this same evening, how those fingers had trembled as they gripped two fistfuls of my shirt and pushed me in fury against the wall. In the wake of this other memories crowded in, other uses of these hands which I still blush to think of, touches I would never know again. I dragged a forearm across my brimming eyes and forced myself to focus on my task.

Elizabeth found me thus when she returned. She too had removed her outer gear and also let down her hair, streaming loose and damp down her back — in her bedraggled male attire she looked like something out of a Gothic melodrama novel.

“How is he?”

“I can’t get his hands warm.”

She took Rhett’s hand from mine and peered at the fingers one by one. And then: “Do you have ginger?”

“...I think so? Rose keeps it for—”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. The medicine cabinet in the pantry, probably.”

“Stop chafing him,” she said, and was gone.

In my state I could not fathom this interlude, but I did as she instructed and instead fetched the warmed soapstone from the hearth. I wrapped it in a towel and tucked it beneath Rhett’s feet, then searched for a pair of socks to protect his skin. The dresser drawers all stood open, but when I peered into them I found his clothing still folded neatly inside. I closed each drawer, perplexed — what about the bag he took with him? What was in it? I fetched the sack and opened it. Inside were the tattered red drawers and grey shirt I had devised for him on his first day in the library. As I pulled them free, something small and white fluttered to the floor. I picked it up, turned it over. It was a photograph from my study, taken from the little gilt triple frame on my desk where I keep images of my parents. It was a photograph of myself.

I looked at Rhett’s face: lips dry and cracked, nose and forehead dusted with frostnip, but with pinkish color slowly returning to his cheeks. I walked over to the bed and placed the photograph on the nightstand, propped against his exercise book.

As I was doing so Elizabeth returned, carrying a large bowl on a tray. Steam curled from it, and the sharp smell of ginger filled the bedroom as she placed it on the nightstand. It held some sort of pale orange-brown liquid, with a cloth floating in it — I leaned over and sniffed it, then grimaced.

“What is that?”

“Ginger boiled in black tea. I’ll do his hands, you bathe his face.”

Of course! Ginger and caffeine both dilate the capillaries and increase blood flow. I knew this to be true internally, but had never considered external applications. I squeezed the cloth and daubed it on Rhett’s nose and ears, careful not to get any in his eyes. Meanwhile I watched Elizabeth submerge Rhett’s hands in the warm tea, one at a time, massaging them as precisely as if she were performing surgery. Soon the fingers grew more pliable and warmed to a healthier shade of pink. When she saw me staring, her scowl of concentration grew sharper as she said: “I worked hard on these hands. I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose them.” I was so fascinated that I forgot to frown at her language.

A few minutes later moment Rhett hitched in a breath, and the tea sloshed in the bowl as he began to shiver. Elizabeth and I looked at each other in triumph. Quickly we dried his hands and bundled him beneath the covers, and as she took away the bowl I leaned over Rhett to check his pulse. When my fingers touched his neck, he gasped and awoke with a start. His eyes focused on me, wide and alarmed — and then he realized where he was, and he sighed and closed them again. He tried to turn his face from my view, but the heavy blankets and his violent shuddering prevented it. I put a hand on his chest to keep him still, and smoothed his wild hair back from his face.

Through chattering teeth he said simply: “You knew.”

“I guessed.”

“I couldn’t... do it. Fig’rd... cold was better. Just g... go to sleep.”

“Sh. Rest now. You’re not going anywhere.”

But he was no longer listening. That brief moment of lucidity had exhausted him and he drifted in and out of consciousness, even as his shivering increased. I checked his pulse again while Elizabeth tucked the blankets more securely about him. She put a hand on his forehead, then nodded.

“We found him just in time,” she said.

I reached over to squeeze her hand. “Elizabeth...”

She squeezed my hand back, mercifully sparing me from trying to find the words. “He’ll be alright now. Why don’t you go to bed? It’s getting late.”

“I’d rather sit up with him for a while.”

“Of course. Well, everything’s ship-shape downstairs, so I believe I shall have a hot bath and go to bed.”

“I think you’ve earned that much,” I said, grinning.

She leaned over to kiss my cheek. “He’ll be alright now,” she said again, and with that she left the tray on the mantel and patted my shoulder before leaving me to my charge.

The room remained overheated and stuffy, and now the close air reeked of ginger — I was never fond of the stuff, so I decided to take the tray into the next room and then fetch a volume of Goethe from my bedroom. I then drew up a chair beside Rhett’s bed and settled in to read by the light of the fire. I was searching for my place in the pages when I heard a soft murmur.

“It was the lake.”

I looked up — Rhett’s eyes were open: directed at mine but hazy, unfocused.

“I lied, too,” he said.

“What?”

But his eyes drifted closed again, and he shuddered beneath the blankets. “I’m cold.”

I watched him a moment, and then I left the novel in the chair and locked the bedroom door. I stood before the bed and disrobed, piece by piece, folding each garment neatly as I had done that first morning in the library. I crawled naked beneath the blankets and gathered Rhett to me, pressing as much of my skin to his as was possible with our difference in height. Within minutes I was drenched in sweat, but Rhett’s skin grew warmer against mine, and his shivering gradually began to subside. By the time I joined him in sleep, his warmth nearly matched my own.

I awoke just before dawn. I was alarmed to discover I had kicked free of the bedclothes during the night, then relieved when I saw Rhett still firmly tucked in. He had turned onto his side, facing me, and at first all I could see of him was one frost-nipped ear between the blankets, his beard, and his hair. I smiled, thinking he looked rather like a hibernating bear. His pulse was strong and steady, his breathing sounded clear and dry, and his coloring had returned to normal except for his chapped lips. I thought I might have time to fetch him some tea before he woke.

Carefully I eased out of bed, trying not to jostle him. He did not stir as I reached for my clothing. I pulled on my trousers and socks as quietly as possible, and then my shirt, but as I began to button it I felt eyes upon me. I looked up to see a pair of gray eyes peeking out between rosy cheeks and riotous hair. I smiled at him, and he smiled back — but it was a strange and melancholy smile, a smile that somehow instantly filled me with dread. And then he spoke four words: four short, simple words, that left me reeling.

“My name is James.”

“...What?”

“James McLaughlin. I was born in Georgia. I been a forester since I was fifteen.”

For a long moment I was too dumbstruck to reply. Eventually I managed to stammer: “When... how long have you known?”

“Since that night you came to my room.”

I leaned heavily against a bedpost, afraid my legs might fail me. Rhett pushed himself up a little on the pillows to face me.

“That day at the lake — you remember? I lied when I said it wasn’t nothing. A little bit came back then. I knew I had drowned in the lake, and I knew I done it on purpose.”

One hand went to my mouth in horror.

“It’s a sin, but I reckon I figured hell, what’s one more? I didn’t think I had nothing to live for. I couldn’t take another winter alone. I heard say drowning was easy... but let me tell you, it ain’t. Not when the water’s that cold...” His eyes clouded briefly with the memory, and he paused to recover himself. “Anyway, after we went up to the lake, things started coming back in bits and pieces. Then that night I had dreams, about my family, about everything, and then I dreamed I was drowning again. And then I woke up and you was there, and it was like it was the second time you saved me.”

I clutched the bedpost as I struggled to comprehend what he was saying. All this time I had wrestled with how much I should reveal, and he had known everything all along?

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

To my astonishment he let out a short laugh, hoarse with weariness. “Ah, Link. I thought you was supposed to be smart? Don’t you get what I’m telling you? Nobody ever took to me like you and Lizzie did. Not till I come here. I was alone, and then I wasn’t. That’s why I was so mad at you for lying to me, cause I knew I lied to you, too. I thought you had pulled me out of the water, saved my life — when I realized I’d done, I was truly dead, it was too much. I couldn’t bear it. I wanted to die, but instead I got a whole new life. It don’t feel right. I don’t deserve it. James is dead. He died in that lake and there ain’t no one to miss him. I don’t wanna be him anymore. I’d rather be Rhett.”

Each word he spoke seemed to batter me like a physical blow, one after another until I felt I would collapse from their weight. How can I describe what I felt in those moments, when I don’t fully understand it myself? It was as if terror and joy combined into something greater than either — as if I again lay sprawled helpless on the floor of the laboratory, watching a force I could not fully control work a miracle before my eyes. He watched my face and waited for the response which I knew I must give, but no words would come. And then the next thing I knew I had rushed forward and flung myself onto the bed beside him, and I answered him without my voice.

When we parted he still clung fiercely to me, his face buried in my neck, clutching at me as if he would never let me go. I felt him shudder again, this time not with cold but with the force of his emotions. His fingers dug into my back and I stroked his neck, bent my head to his hair, still smelling of forest and snow.

“I’ve spent the past decade chasing death,” I told him. “I thought I was meant to right a wrong, and I was, but not the one I thought. I’ve given you nothing you haven’t given me in return. You owe me nothing, but I owe you everything. Whoever you are now, it must be your choice.”

He kissed me again, his chapped lips wet now with his tears. “Can I stay here? Can I stay with you?”

“This is your home now, as much as it is mine. You belong to this place. Everything here is yours forever. Just as I am.”

He slid his hands beneath my open shirt, his palms warm now against my skin. “Say it, Link,” he asked, a soft whisper against my lips. “Please. Say my name.”

“Rhett,” I said, and kissed him once more.


	12. Chapter 12

_ Exercise Book of Rhett McLaughlin _

Feb 20

Link says its good practise to rite things everyday. Its much easier now and I like to do it tho I still spell words wrong. Link helps me with spelling but I git so mad, the rules dont make sens. But who will see this book anyway?? I still rite pretty good. Nobody in my family ever read or rote as good as I do. The more I do it the better I will get. I want to read som books I heard folks talk about like Tom Sawyer and Paul Bunyan. And more books about forestry and wood working and such. 

And I draw a lot too. I hav been drawing lots of things that I want to bild — things for Link’s labratory and other things like furnichur. I want to make a head bord for Link’s bed. I found a book with pichers of Anjels that I can carv into it, at least I think there Anjels, they might be Gods. Any way there pretty and they make me think of Link. I mite giv it to him on his birth day, but I dont think I can wait that long. Maybe I will make some other things between now and then. There are so many things I want to make for Link.

Lizzy says she will bring me som books when she goes to the city. She is a real sweet girl. I like to think that if my sister had grown up she mite have bin like Lizzy. I guess I got a new sister too. She and Link and Rose and Jon are like a real family to me. But I dont want to rite about that or I will get all choked up. The wether is so good rite now. The snow is melting and I think it will be spring soon. I cant wait to see spring here, all the flowers and trees and such. It will be like coming here all over again.

I had a dream last nite. In my dream I took care of LinkHome like Jon does. I was splitting logs by the wood pile and I looked up and Link was there. He smiled at me and he had some gray hairs rite abov his ears where the hair is so soft. I kissed him there and then I woke up. It was a good dream. I think it will come tru.

—Rhett

 

_ The Diary of Dr. Charles Neal _

· Feb. 28, 1895 ·

Nearly four weeks have passed since my last entry in this journal. In that interim Elizabeth and I have been hard at work compiling all the data and observations related to this experiment. I have stayed up late into the night working on my thesis papers. It is now at the printer’s shop being bound into copies for submission. I have also filed patents for my machine and several of its components, and have been working on streamlining the design and creating a smaller and less pyrotechnic version. I have also written to the editors of several medical, scientific, and engineering journals and magazines with inquiries to discuss my work and its findings. After so many weeks (months! years!) of daydreaming, imagining, conceiving, and finally a rush of activity, everything is coming together. I may not be the next Tesla or Edison, but I feel I have contributed something of true value to science, something that will be useful in saving and/or extending countless lives.

And in all of this compiling, writing, and editing, there has been one significant revision. Elizabeth and I combed through every bit of data with great effort and eliminated each and every specific reference to Rhett: all identifying details, and all personal/emotional observations, rewriting the technical observations as hypothetical. Rather than a record of what _has_ occurred, my proposal is a suggestion of what _would_ occur, with the hypothesis supported by my research, my observations and tests, and my earlier experiments with animals. I understand that this lessens the impact dramatically, and that some will not accept it because of this. But my machine is so sound that I am confident I will obtain all the grants and patents I need to continue the work. It was never mandatory that my test subject be paraded about as living evidence like some kind of freak show. I find the idea distasteful. And even if I didn’t, I still would not expose him to the world. This story is his, and mine. I see now that I needed to test my machine not so that others would believe in it, but so that I would believe in it. It was (and remains) my life’s work, and it has changed my life in a way that I could never have anticipated. For that reason, if for no other, it has been my greatest success.

And I am not the only one. When not helping me with my publications, Elizabeth has been hard at work on her own. Since we removed Rhett’s particular circumstances from the data, that also eliminated the proof of her pioneering surgical techniques. I apologized profusely, but she says the medical world is not yet ready for such things, and honestly she is most likely correct. So much superstition and dogmatic sensitivity remains even in the most intelligent medical mind — the idea of transplanting limbs from one person to another would likely be considered unethical, perhaps even profane. One day, however, I have no doubt it will occur. In the meantime, she is writing medical papers on the structure of the wrists and hands, including new techniques in suturing and hypothermia treatments. She will publish these under a male pseudonym — another discretion that I trust will become unnecessary in the future. She has found fulfillment in her life’s work, and I could not be happier for her. She has agreed to live in Linkholme permanently with myself and Rhett once her upcoming trip is over. Some in town may find it improper, but our days of succumbing to those fears are over.

And so, satisfied and grateful in mind, heart, and soul, I can happily declare this journal _FINIS_.

 

_ Letter, Miss Elizabeth Bassett to Dr. Charles L. Neal _

March 2, 1895  
New York City

My dear Charles,

I hope this letter finds you well. Mother and Father send their greetings. Our little spring sojourn is going along just swimmingly. Father found getting around rather difficult at first, but now that we are settled at my aunt’s house he can take cabs to zip about the city, which he enjoys far more than he lets on. I am endeavoring to get them to venture onto the elevated train, but so far no luck. Mother is convinced it will send us plummeting to our deaths, and Father dislikes crowds. (The two of you share that aversion, I know.) But I shall not give up in my quest! Success will be mine. I will fetch a postcard for you when I’m there.

Enclosed is a page I clipped from this morning’s Times. You will be pleased with it, I think. Your work is gaining attention in many circles, and I think you’ll be encouraged by the reception it is receiving. I know you don’t seek fame or fortune (at least not fame, you already have fortune!), but you may get it nonetheless. Perhaps in your old age you will be forced to become one of those eccentric hermits who is never seen in public. Children will sneak around Linkholme and whisper: “There lives the old man who charged hearts with lightning!” Rhett will come out and chase them away. Does John let him work around the grounds? I know he and Rose were rather scandalized when you suggested Rhett might like to become groundsman when John gets too old to manage it on his own. The more time they spend with him, the more they will see that he is meant for the role. Anyone can see how much Rhett loves Linkholme... and those who live in it.

I will visit the patent office soon and inquire about the status of our filings. I see no reason why anything should be delayed — I did write the proposal letters, after all. I will be sure to pick up all the latest journals and magazines for you. We shall be here visiting my aunt and uncle until the 15th. I will send you a telegram when we set out for home.

I’ll be home soon. Give my love to Rhett. But more importantly, my darling Charles, give your love to him as well. And be sure to let him give you his. You will always have mine.

Both of you. ♡

—Elizabeth 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Playlist**  
> [The Gentleman Who Fell](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7aOaH_0YX3c) (Milla Jovovich)  
> [Gray Blue Eyes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MkN3DCssrao) (Dave Matthews)  
> [Teach Me Tonight](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=emkqc3PIw8E) (Dinah Washington)  
> [Oh My Stars](https://youtu.be/umjDHyfKxO8) (Andrew Belle)  
> [Love You Madly](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2uwjsG0cRf0) (Cake)  
> [Science Fiction](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YV58A8xzatU) (Jonathan Thulin)  
> [Made for You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wnFO4mRFN7k) (Alexander Cardinale)


End file.
